


The Baker

by fabula_prima



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2020-10-26 23:07:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 40
Words: 27,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20750270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabula_prima/pseuds/fabula_prima
Summary: A centralized collection of Alfie/reader drabbles from requests and prompts on Tumblr.





	1. Sacrilege (NSFW-Edging)

Alfie Solomons fucks like he knows the world will end tomorrow. He takes his time, thorough in undressing you, but not to be leisurely. He fucks, makes love to you, like this will be his last opportunity. He doesn’t bother with fine clothes for himself, but he has taste. And he appreciates the delicate texture of a lace strap slipping from your freckled shoulder. He presses his lips there, shockingly full and soft in contrast to his wiry beard, and a shudder runs through you because this man bows for no one, but his head is dipped in reverence to you. Is it worship? He’s a good Jewish boy when duty calls, despite that crown tattoo. But he idolizes you, hums in awe of your wit, tells you as much when you put some con artist in his place with a verbal lashing, “you have me fucking hard, that sharp tongue of yours.” Sweet sacrilege.

He likes to start in public, whispering casually in that airy rumble that he’d like to see you in that peach number later tonight, the one he favors. But he refuses to touch you and he knows it has you weak. You don’t even mean to lean into him as he backs away and you only know he’s self-satisfied because the corner of his eye wrinkles just before he turns away. The only solace is hoping that he’ll ache in anticipation for the rest of the day, punishment for distracting you. But even that thought has you squirming, your cheeks aflame, your chest flushed and tight.

He doesn’t wait when he arrives home. He’s quiet, methodical as he rests his cane against the wall. Removes his hat and shrugs out of his long wool coat. Toes off his shoes and nudges them away, runs a hand through his hair and smoothes his beard. Then when he’s finished, he looks up with hungry eyes and crooks two fingers to call you over. You want to play with the power dynamic, delay his satisfaction, but that’s for later. You’re light on your bare feet, watching his mouth because it’s too difficult meet his dark stare. His hands are already reaching out to cradle your face, and his kiss swallows you whole, pulling at a string tied to your core. You lift onto your toes, arms slung around his neck and lowers his hand to run his thumb across your nipple, hard and aching through the soft silk of that peach number he favors. The rasp of his calloused fingerprint draws a sigh from you and you drop all of your weight into him. Arch into him. Demand that he fill his hands with you, hair through his fingers, breast heavy in the palm of his hand. You dig fingertips into the meat of his back, hard and shifting as he works to undress you. And when you feel his erection press against your belly, you break all contact and step away, backwards toward the bedroom. He grunts, _grunts_ through flared nostrils and it’s so fucking primal, the rapid heave of his chest, that you have all sorts of ideas. _Bad_ ideas. About fucking and filling and his babe in your belly. _Perhaps in another life._

When you both reach the bedroom, he watches you, raises his chin as he unbuttons his waistcoat, and then his cuffs, and then his shirt. He starts to unfasten his trousers, but you stop him with a soft hand. Tentative: Alfie’s not one to take direction, after all, but his only reaction is to furrow his brow. You pull his hand, lead him to the bed, direct him to lie back.

Alfie likes to be fucked by a strong-willed woman. You crawl on top of him, sit on his clothed, hardened cock, and his eyes squeeze shut. Tonight, you’ll kiss him. His weather-rough face. His soft, insistent mouth haloed by wisps of whisky fumes. His jaw, just beneath his ear, where reluctant moans can be teased out. His chest, rock solid and pounding. His navel, tender and twitching in anticipation. And he could sit up, if he wanted. He could sit up and pin you against the mattress and fuck you like an animal. But he let’s you command, impatient as he is. When you unfasten his pants and pull his dick out, he grunts again, “get on with it, woman.” But you’re still _kissing_, and does anything else deserve kissing as much as his remarkable cock? Thick and hard as stone, smooth against your tongue and so hot that your face starts to flush. He’s noisy. He brushes the hair out of your face harshly, trying against his control to be gentle. His breathing turns heavy and ragged and he opens his mouth to warn you that he’s close, but before he does, you stop and let him go. His glare is sharp, his hairline sweating, and he wipes his face, “well don’t fucking stop.”

You take his cock in your hand and pump him expertly, once, twice. You tell him to say ‘mercy’ if it gets to be too much and he rolls his eyes. But you slide your hand up and down continuously, flicking and twisting. And when he’s at the precipice once more, groaning your name and gripping the sheets, you let go. He punches the mattress this time and swears a little louder. You ask if he’d like to stop. If he’d like you to finish him and be done. “Keep on,” he whispers. He seems to like it, this delayed gratification, but his instruction sounds like a delicious warning. You draw him to the edge of his pleasure two more times: again with your mouth, and then grinding against him. The last round nearly breaks him, you think. Surrounding his cock with the heat of your cunt without allowing him entry has him more frantic than you’ve ever seen. You’d keep going like this until he loses coherence, but the image of his heaving chest and the sound of his voice deeper than you knew possible has you nearly broken yourself.

You lower yourself onto his cock and it knocks the breath out of you. He’s unimaginably massive, you think. Feels larger, thicker than ever before. His hands hold tight to your thighs and suddenly you’re less composed than him. His voice cracks, gravely and stunned, “so fucking wet, so fucking sweet.” You lean forward against him, mouth to ear, and whine, “do you love me, Alfie?”

And he’s grabbed you, spun you around, your head on the pillow, slipped out of you for half a second and slid back in again. All in a moment. He balances his weight on one forearm, roped in muscle and fine hairs and you wrap your hand tight around his bicep, hoping you’ll think of this moment the next time he embraces you. His other hand tucks against the small of your back and he lifts up until you’re arched, until his cock is driving so far and so _right_ into you that you almost miss what he grunts, “I love you, woman. I love you, I love you, what the fuck have you done to me?”

He comes with a scream you’ve never heard from him, edged with a whimper, and _keeps_ coming, the build-up of four denied orgasms shocking him. He curses, every muscle in his burly body tensed, his nose pressed sharp against your shoulder. You come in the midst of it, your cunt squeezing so tightly around him that it pulls his cock deeper. It’s dizzying, the sensation of being so full, so filled with a man that would burn the world for you. It’s almost too much, you think, looking over his shoulder at the firm curve of his ass. The build of him, the raspy depth of his voice, the confident intensity, the cloying smell of rum and fresh bread and cigar smoke as he collapses on you. It’s too much for everyone else, who gets cruel Alfie. Violent Alfie. Gangster Alfie. But he’s careful with you, gentle Alfie, and he let’s you have your way. He let’s you kiss the fine lines at the corner of his eye as he falls asleep, his hand firm on your ass, his lips soft at your throat.


	2. A Lended Hand (NSFW-Vaginal Fingering)

Alfie, absolutely exhausted after a long day of mundane business, paperwork and phone calls, face down and dead to the world in bed. His woman, getting in late after a social obligation, tipsy off wine and aroused by all the hushed whispers of the repressed wives at the gala, “that Mr. Solomons is a devil of man, I’ve heard, but there’s something attractive about a man of that power.” There really _is_. And it’s hers.

But he’s asleep. And her heart sinks because she _wants_ him, but he looks so content. She calls his name, and he continues softly snoring. She undresses, removes her jewelry, unpins her hair, slides into bed next to him, equal parts endeared and absolutely _vibrating_ at the sight of his lips, parted and pouty against his pillow.

She slips eager fingers between her legs to find that she’s drenched. He shifts suddenly onto his back in his sleep and her heart stops–ridiculous. He’s had her writhing against him more times than she can count, why worry that he’ll catch her self-servicing? But he stays asleep, and she turns on to her belly, determined to relieve herself of the ache growing in its depths. Silence is the key, but she likes saying his name, likes the taste of it when her heart’s pounding. So she opens her mouth to whisper it, but releases a soft moan by mistake. She doesn’t bother stopping, two fingers pressed deep, trying to imitate the thickness of him. The delicious stretch of him, encouraging words, praises and curses and _his hand joining hers, nudging her arm away_. He’s awake and she’s fingering herself desperately and it’s mortifying, but his eyes are still closed and two thick fingers are coating themselves in her slick, ‘keep on, love,” a barely audible growl, groggy with sleep. She presses herself onto his fingers and he locks his wrist, sighs “warm” like it’s a comfort, and she’s lost. She fucks his fingers slow and deep, delighting in the feel of his knuckles, rough inside her, and then his thumb rubs at her clit and it’s a chase, all she needs is to picture him, think of his neck tensed, his mouth demanding, his eyebrows pulling together and his forearm flexed like it surely is now, hard and veined and determined to get her off, _“Fuck, Alfie–”_

She groans into her pillow, too exhausted, too liquid to move. He removes his fingers, strokes his hand against the soft curve of her belly, grips her waist. Eyes still closed, he scoots himself close and pulls her in. “Think I earned a kiss, at least, I was having a nice dream.”


	3. After Shave

Alfie injures himself, to the surprise of absolutely no one. Fractures one of the bones in his right hand, breaks a finger, bruises a couple of knuckles after punching a wall by mistake, “didn’t expect the prick to duck.”

You’ve been helping his gang here and there, running mundane errands, patching the brutes up after bar brawls and the like. You’ve got a professional understanding with Alfie: an errand girl in exchange for protection. And you respect his position. Pushing the boundaries doesn’t appeal to you in this tenuous dance of life-and-death. But when he comes home early one evening while you’re in the midst of stocking his kitchen after some shopping, he can hardly grip his fucking cane.

He rants, incomprehensible mumbles, that he can do fuck all with his hand in shambles and he looks every ounce exhausted. He sits at the table, only vaguely acknowledging your presence by way of asking if you’d like tea. The circles under his eyes are pitiful and you haven’t a clue in the world how to be of use. You’ve never been in his house with him, just the two of you. But he scratches at his shaggy beard with his left hand and an idea strikes you.

You head toward the bathroom, asking over your shoulder where he keeps a razor. But you find it at his sink before he answers, snag the dish of soap and a brush, and return to the kitchen.

“Putting me out of my misery, then?” He jokes when he sees the blade, but he looks genuinely suspicious as you set the accoutrements before him.

You tell him you did this a lot as a nurse during the War. Men lost arms and hands and needed help with shaving.

“Oy, wait a fucking minute there—“ he protests, but you explain that you’re not going to shave him clean, just tidy things up. The suspicion lingers across his brow, but he glances at his broken hand and unbuttons his collar with a grunt. “Nick me, and I’ll have to shoot you.”

You grab a dish towel to protect his shirtfront, though it would be easier to lose the shirt altogether. You’d not considered Alfie without a shirt. He slouches and groans like a pained old man all day, but it’s an act. Mostly. He’d been a soldier not so long ago, a captain. And this close to his face, you can see the strength in his jaw and neck and suddenly, the notion of Alfie without a shirt has you terribly distracted. Ridiculous.

But you carry on with your business. You lather soap onto the brush and smooth it across the edges of his beard. You’re just cleaning it up, after all, the stray hairs and unnecessary patches down his neck. Your only real intention is to refresh him. The man’s a disaster, and a bit of care costs you nothing.

So there he sits with his neck exposed, and you, a blade in your hand. You can count the shallow wrinkles that crease across his Adam’s apple, you’re close enough to see the feather thin lines that curve along either side of his mouth. You consider the bare patch across his right cheek where a pale scar hides. The terrifying prospect of mortality, of his mortality hits harder than it has before, harder than when you saw a gun pointed directly between his eyes and you decide to dismiss that thought for now. Why should you care what happens to some London gangster? Blade poised between thumb and forefinger, you scrape it against the grain of the errant hairs on his cheek until you’ve erased a strip of lather. You tend to the soft area beneath his lower lip and he juts his chin forward in reflexive assistance. In truth, there’s not much to clean up around his mouth, but you convince yourself it needs attention. Perhaps you’ll never have another excuse to stare, enraptured by its soft pout, inexplicably curious as to how the bottom lip would feel between your teeth.

You clear your throat to hide the shocked gasp that slips from you, shocked at your own desires. He’s not said a word, not with a razor so near his face, but you can see in the tension of his shoulders that he’s growing uncomfortable. Perhaps he senses that something’s bothering you. Perhaps it’s hit him, just how odd it is that you insisted on shaving him, and he agreed. More likely, his neck’s begun to stiffen.

You make quick work of removing the hair that creeps down his neck in wiry wisps. You wipe his face clean of any soap with the towel, and he immediately swipes his good hand across his cheek and under his chin to survey the damage. You turn away, suddenly self conscious, awaiting his praise or complaint.

“No nicks, no shooting then.” You’re not sure it’s made any difference at all, not sure if it’s refreshed him or bewildered him. But it’s changed something in you. You can’t meet his eye, and you’re afraid that if you look at his mouth, he’ll sense the desire in you, sniff it out like a hound. You’re deep in your own head, in your own heart about it all, when he lifts your chin between his thumb and forefinger, barely, briefly, just half a moment to coax your eyes up to his, and there’s worry writ large across his face. Worry and thick eyelashes. Is there a name for that eye color? And my God his nose is straight and strong, and was his face always this handsome? And you’re “right fucked,” he’d say, because you’ve lifted your fingertips to his mouth, you’ve lost your mind.

“The fuck’s wrong?” He breathes the question more than speaking it, careful to not scare your hand away.

The spirit of a bolder woman possesses you. “Could I kiss you, Mr. Solomons?”

He breathes in deep through his nose, a glimmer in his eyes, and grunts, “mhm, probably should.”


	4. Lie Back for Me (NSFW)

It takes months to get Alfie properly in bed.

A rushed fuck in his office here and there only serves to rile you up without fully satisfying. That’s not to say he doesn’t get you off–curled in his lap behind his desk, his fingers dug into the tender center of you until you worry you’ll burst through the seams of your dress, have to traipse through the distillery disheveled and smelling of him.

You don’t mind it, truly. Fucking with clothes on, his pants dropped just far enough to see the tops of his wiry-haired thighs, your collar unbuttoned all the way down to your navel and bunched by his fist out of the way so he can mark you with his mouth. He’s a busy man, and you’re not entirely sure you want to grow attached to him anyway.

But you leave the distillery late one night, just as he’s headed home. He invites you to tea, says it’s too dangerous alone on the streets for a wisp of a thing like you, and you laugh full and round at him. “I’m no wisp Alfie, you should know better than anyone.”

“Might like to know better,” he mumbles, half to himself as he puts the kettle on. But the tea is forgotten in slow strides as you take his hand and guide him to what you assume is a bedroom. The world’s not been gentle enough with Alfie Solomons, you think. So you’re careful in undressing him. You remove his watch fob and chain, pile it on the bedside table. You unbutton his waistcoat, press your palms flat against his chest, under the shoulders of the garment, and watch the silky fabric slide down his arms. He watches you in fascination, perhaps fighting against his instincts to hurry it up. But you can’t handle his stare, it’s the one cowardly thing about you. So you focus on your fingers at his shirtfront, slipping buttons from their holes like so many precious pearls. When you slip your hands inside the shirt to push it from his shoulders, you feel his naked arms for the first time and nearly swoon. Not a boy like so many others you’ve known. A fully fledged man in his own right, worn and weary but still so vital. The last layer is a thin cotton shirt without sleeves and it may as well be a second skin. You pause before removing it and press your lips to the front of his shoulder, soft and warm. The muscle twitches against your mouth and you wonder if he’s nervous or flexing for your benefit, but neither makes sense: Alfie is the most self-assured man you’ve ever known. You walk around behind him, knees weak in the wake of his glorious back. Wide, muscled, and warming when you press your cheek to it. He turns his head to the side and you wrap your arms around him, sneak your fingers beneath the hem of the thin remaining shirt, press your palms to his tensed stomach. He’s hard all over it seems, made of stone, perhaps. Covered in velvety skin that’s been nicked and torn too many times to count. But his belly has a softness, too, when he breathes easy. A comfort about it makes you think, for one dangerous moment, that he could be a tender, domestic man. For all the times he’s fucked you, you wonder if he knows how to make love.

You walk around him once more, eager to peel away the last undershirt and cover his torso in kisses. A tuft of hair runs from below the belt of his trousers, in a dark line up to his chest, where it spreads sparse. You’ve felt the hair of his beard under your lips before, but this new trail is invigorating. You follow it to a nipple, and when your teeth scrape against it, he jerks for the first time.

“Fuck, lemme have a turn, then.” He reaches a hand up your skirt, slips thick fingers under your panties and squeezes at your ass. You pull back and turn around so that he can unzip your dress. It slips off with a roll of your shoulders and his mouth is at the back of your neck before the fabric hits the ground. He unclasps your bra, places his lips onto the red marks where the straps have rested all day. He pulls you to him, your back against his chest, and you feel warm for the first time in your life, you think. Nothing has ever been so warm as his chest against you, his breath at your neck. You turn in his arms and he guides you back to the bed. Your knees hit the edge and you sit, watch him stare at your bare breasts, the meeting of your thighs.

“Lie back for me, yeah?”

You crawl back, rest your shoulders against a pile of pillows at the head of the bed, and you catch his tongue slip between his lips as he bites at them. When you’re settled, he climbs onto the bed as well, kneels over your feet. He lifts your right leg to his face and begins kissing. Starts at your ankle, quick soft kisses, little more than his lips skating across the knobby bones. He moves up to your shin, around to your calf, runs his hand up, as high as he can reach and squeezes your thigh. His nose presses into the crook behind your knee and your back arches. Satisfied that it tickles or arouses, or at the very least gets a reaction from you, he licks the tender skin there, nips at the inside of your thigh with careful teeth. He leans forward on his hands and knees, reaches his face up to the meeting of your thighs and you spread them apart. His eyes flick up to meet yours, forehead creased in questioning, and you nod so that he’ll finally bury his head between your legs. He runs his tongue flat against your clothed cunt and the heavy breath of his exhale cools the fabric. His nose, long and straight and pointed right at your clit presses against it without ever touching it, and his hands are roaming upward to caress your stretched torso. He opens his mouth wide, you feel his teeth drag against the sopping cotton of your panties and you dig your fingers into his shaggy hair. You pull, pull his head up, direct that eager mouth over your soft stomach to your chest and he happily takes a nipple, nuzzles at it, sucks at it with damnably full lips, his beard scratching at the soft heavy underside of your breast. You can’t keep your hands still, can’t stop them from feeling out every inch of his warm, dampening skin, every one of his tensed and twitching muscles as he strives to hold you tight _tight_ against him. You feel his heartbeat against your belly and it’s fast, shockingly fast and you’re comforted to know that he might feel as wild and shaken as you. One of his hands pulls at your underwear and you lift your hips to help him tear them away. He unfastens his pants with the same hand, pulls out his cock and you look at his face.

And that’s how you face your own cowardice: you meet his stare, accept the want and begging and fear there. The fear that fucking might mean something other than fucking, the fear that he might spend every one of his days worried that he’s put you in danger, because he _cares_. But it’s already too late for mights. He holds your stare as he thrusts his cock inside you and you see his question in his color-changing eyes. _“Does it mean something other than fucking?”_ You reach your hand to his temple, push your fingers through the wild hair, hold his face and stare harder, if it’s possible to do such a thing. He drops his head to your shoulder, kisses your neck and leaves marks for tomorrow, fucks you slow and deep and holds you tight like it might help him remember gentleness more clearly in the morning.


	5. Relax, Love (NSFW-Butt Plug)

“You tellin’ me that goes up your bum?”

You laugh nervously. It’s brand new to you too, after all. But your sister swears by it, and she’s very trendy and well-traveled and she really wouldn’t steer you wrong. All the same, it rests cold and heavy in the palm of your hand and you wonder if you’ve made a mistake.

You pass it to him, along with a small vial of lubricant. “Slow and gentle, okay?” He nods as he contemplates the flare of its base. “Really fucking slow, Alfie.”

“Yeah alright, fucking slow. And you tell me, right? You tell me if I need to stop.”

You nod, but he only purses his lips into a tighter line until you say it. “I’ll tell you if we need to stop.”

He’s fucked you on your knees before, and the memory of it floods your mind as you bend over on the bed, ass in the air. He kneads the smooth, soft flesh of each cheek with one hand as he warms the plug in his other. You look over your shoulder to see him dripping the oily substance over the plug and into his cupped hand and your nerves make it hard to relax.

He starts with one finger and hushes low and comforting when you groan. “Fuck’s sake, even this does it,” he whispers as he smooths his free hand up your back. He removes his finger and reenters with two, so slowly you think you might lose your mind. The stretch of it edges on pain, but once you’ve adjusted, it’s still not enough.

“Go on then, Alfie.” Both of you are surprised by the depth of your voice when you finally speak, and he takes a moment to press a kiss to your tailbone, a second one against the full curve of your ass.

The tip of the plug pushes lightly into you and you can’t help but tense. He presses his mouth just above your ass again so you can feel the rumble of his voice. “Relax, love.”

You nod and he continues pressing in, leveraging himself with a flat palm against your lower back. He watches the widest part of the plug disappear into your ass and he lets out a harsh breath. “Almost there.”

By now, the sensation has you trembling beneath him. He gives one last guiding push and the plug settles, flared base the only indication that it exists at all. You’ve started grinding your hips against the mattress, trying to find relief from the ache and surprisingly delicious discomfort. It must be absolute sin to feel like this, to feel so aroused and maddened and intruded upon.

He’s breathing heavy when he raises up on his knees. “You alright?”

Your mind’s lost by now, hips squirming, body tensed, but you try to speak anyway. “Need you Alfie, do something.”

He reaches his hand around the front of you, slides two fingers through your cunt and swears. “Fucking hell that’s wet, right there.”

“Mhmm.”

“No, really fucking–like it’s goddamn pouring out you.”

“Fuck Alfie, I know, _do_ something.”

He thought you’d need more time to adjust, and maybe you do. But you’re insistent, and he can’t deny you. His cock’s been painfully hard since he put a single finger in you, and you’re so wet that he has to plant his weight firm on the bed to actually press into you.

Just the head of him slips in and it’s painfully tight. You wince and he freezes, but you will yourself to relax and he manages to slide into you. He wraps his body around yours, his chest sticky with sweat against your back. His stomach nudges against your ass and you can’t help but tense every muscle in your core.

It sounds like he’s been shot. A guttural groan from deep in his chest rumbles through you and he whimpers. He tries to say something, and you wonder if it’s English or Yiddish or Russian, but you know what it means because you feel it too. On fire, transcendent, unbearably full. He comes almost immediately. You wonder if you’ve been coming the whole time until he kisses the back of your neck and you feel his breath. And then it’s all stars and lungs taking in too much air and Alfie, _Alfie_ in your veins.

* * *

The next morning, as the two of you get dressed, he lifts the plug from the bedside table where it rested through the night. He holds it up to your face and leans in to kiss you, a chaste peck on the cheek, followed by a whisper.

“I think we should put this back in, love. You come to the office with it in, keep it in all day. Then I’ll know how wet you are, and you’ll know how hard I am knowin’, see? And every time I walk by, I’ll smell all that want on you. Watch you breathing heavy and rubbing your legs together, hm?”

You raise onto the tips of your toes and touch your forehead to his. “Deal. But no touching ‘til we get back home tonight.”


	6. Soft Underside

Snow falls in thick clumps as you lose your train of thought staring out the window. Your book is interesting enough, but your eyes have grown heavy in the warmth of Alfie’s sitting room.

The two of you are _not_ an item, he’s been quite clear about that. You’re just sleeping together on occasion. And you spend the night quite often. And sometimes you have a quiet dinner together as companions, no fucking involved. You agree with him for the sake of his bizarre pride: _not_ an item. But in quiet moments to yourself, you have a laugh and wonder. _If we’re not an item, Alfie, what on earth do you call this?_

These thoughts run on a loop tonight while you watch the snow pile up outside. You glance over at him in his high-back chair, his face tinted orange in the low light of the hearth fire, his glasses perched at the end of his nose as he reads his paper. Your father had always read the paper with both hands, print peeled wide open as he held it aloft. But Alfie folds his up so he can hold it with one hand, the other preening his beard mindlessly or coddling a whisky tumbler. But tonight he reaches his free hand across the small gap between his chair and the sofa you’re leaned against, and it lands upon the soft underside of your forearm that rests on the cushion.

You look up, assuming he’s trying to get your attention, but his eyes are still glued to the print before him. His fingertips are calloused, the edges of his blunt nails stained with ink, but his touch is gentle. So gentle that it tickles when he runs his fingers lightly up the tender skin of your arm. You flinch, snort out a quiet laugh.

You look over at him again and he’s suppressing a grin, pressing his lips tight together while he keeps inflicting the barest touch possible.

“Alfie!”

He mumbles under his breath. “What are you yelling about then?”

“Alfie, you prick, that tickles!”

“What?” He finally looks up, feigning surprise. “Oh I’m sorry, you ticklish?”

You could pull your arm away, but you relish the touch, torturous as it is. “Not usually. But I’ve kept sleeves on all winter, this bit’s not used to being so exposed.”

“Ah, s’gone soft on you?”

“Yes. It’s very sensitive.”

“Hm.” He sits his paper down, leans toward you, and holds your arm aloft as if to inspect it.

“Alfieee,” you warn, eyeing him with suspicion. “What are you–?”

One hand encircles your wrist and the other, with all four fingers splayed wide, runs from the palm of your hand all the way up your arm, beneath your sleeve, until you reflexively try to twist out of his grip. But he holds tight and continues with the innocent facade. “Right, so that tickles?”

You pry your eyes open amidst a fit of giggles. “Yes! You’re torturing me, you brute!”

He’s leaned forward in his chair by now and he shakes his head. “Mmph, won’t do. Shall I redeem myself?”

He doesn’t wait for your answer. His mouth starts at the inside of your wrist, near where his fingers are wrapped. He laves a wet kiss there, then blows a puff of cold air on the dampened skin. You’ve stopped laughing: it still tickles, but in an entirely different way. All the same, you don’t want to give him the satisfaction of submission, so you remain stoic. His eyes lift to your face and its indignant challenge. So he redoubles his efforts, latches his mouth to the tender flesh of your forearm where not even the sun reaches, worships it with his tongue, determined to ignite every nerve-ending and raise every goosebump on the small patch of skin. He nips gently and your composure fades. When you whisper his name, it comes out gravelly.

“You don’t have to whisper, love.”

His voice in moments like this, made of velvet and whisky, turns you on as much as his touch. But _paired_ with his touch, the touch of his mouth against the softest, most vulnerable parts of you, his voice has you senseless. He keeps kissing, up and up, until he reaches the spot where your neck and shoulder meet. There, he takes care to press his chin roughly against you as he kisses. He caught you one morning in the mirror, admiring the red splotch across the side of your neck where his beard had rubbed your skin the night before until it was tender. _An observant man, and always happy to oblige you._

You pull his face up to meet yours so you can taste his lips, but instead, he leans back in his chair and pats his thigh, smooths his hand over his beard, stares at you with hungry eyes. You do as he wishes and straddle his lap, pleased to feel that he’s as hard as you are wet. He leans forward as if to kiss you properly, but redirects his lips to the base of your ear.

“Now, what else tickles?”


	7. Headcanon Request: Going Down (NSFW-Cunnilingus)

Torturously, teasingly slow. Spends ages kissing the insides of your thighs until you’re quite literally begging him to move higher. He learns that your stomach is particularly sensitive to his beard, so he spends plenty of time tending to your navel as well. When he finally presses his lips to your folds, you’re drenched. And that fact only encourages him. His endurance is actually a clever strategy: whenever his jaw tires, he murmurs soft encouragements in as raspy a voice as he can. “Like a fucking peach,” he swears. You almost believe him. He keeps this up: wide licks up the length of you, tenderly sucking at your clit, vibrating “mmmm”s any time you whimper. Only when your legs are shaking and his face is slick and you’re soft and swollen and achingly hot does he finally insert two fingers and quickly curl them upward. Through the haze of your orgasm, you revel in the sensation of your thighs clamped tight against his shaggy head. He crawls up you slowly, red faced and breathing as heavy as you. He slides his fingers, still covered in your wetness, into your mouth. And when you suck on them, his lips part in amazement.


	8. Against the Wall

His work ethic is something to be admired most of the time, but he uses it as a distraction when he’s trying to avoid personal conflict. And when he senses the two of you slipping into a domestic routine without his ever really meaning to, he doesn’t want to consider what it means. So he starts staying in his office late into the evenings, dismissing you with a curt wave of his hand. He avoids eye contact, flinches a bit any time he hears your name.

And it pisses you off.

So you go out with friends. The bar isn’t your usual scene, but it serves as a distraction. And if you meet another fella who reminds you that Alfie isn’t the only man in the world, all the better. There’s plenty of them, eager to pull you into a dance, into their beds. And you dance with all of them, you let them buy you drinks, you have _fun_.

And then you see one of Alfie’s men watching you from the corner, his eyes flitting to the flushed face of the man that holds your waist. _The goddamn nerve._

After you finish your drink, you march to Alfie’s front door despite the dark drizzle, and bash your fist against it over and over. You take a deep breath, prepared to yell through the door, but it swings open immediately to frame Alfie in his shirtsleeves, whisky bottle in hand.

“The fuck are you doing?”

“We need to have a chat.”

“Oh we do?” He opens the door wide and gestures you inside.

“You sent a man to spy on me.”

“I’ve got no say over what my men do off hours.”

“Oh bollocks! You can’t even let me have a night to myself.”

“Don’t care what the fuck you do.”

“Yeah, you’ve made that clear. You’d break your neck making sure you don’t accidentally look at me.”

“Dunno what you’re on about.”

“You thought I’d just be a casual fuck, but you caught feelings. And it scared you. Now you’re being a fucking coward about it.”

“What’d you call me?”

You should stop. You should stop right now, but you need to push him to pay attention. “A _coward_.”  
  
In two long strides, he’s in your face and you see the anger in his stare. You expect him to yell, but he softens. “You really think that about me?”

You don’t. Not even a little. So you regroup and say what you really mean. “I think you should either let me go or tell me to stay. But make up your goddamn mind.”

He searches your eyes like he might find the right answer there and you’re suddenly struck with the fear that he’ll decide you let you go.

“What are you so afraid of?” you ask, hoping to delay his decision.

He clenches his jaw, flares his nostrils. “Say Shelby learns who you are, hm? Needs to get under my skin. What then?”

“I–well I’ll–”

“You’ll end up dead ‘cause of me, is what happens. So if keeping you safe means staying the fuck away, well, then, call it a sacrifice.”

He’s a breath away from your face and his eyes flick down to your lips with the word ‘sacrifice.’ That’s as much of an answer as you need. You raise one hand to his face, the other to his shoulder where you squeeze as much assurance into him as you can.

“Fuck the Shelbys. Fuck ‘em all. They don’t get to decide this.”

You kiss him then, and lean so hard into it that your teeth clack together. And then his arms slide soft around you, tighten until you might as well be part of him. Warm, muscled, and smelling of smoke, his presence swallows you, pulls the air out of you.

He lifts you up, presses your back to the wall, and holds you there for a moment with his knee between your legs. His thigh, thick and hard as a rock, presses up into you in a slow stroke. You feel your feet nearly leave the floor and your head drops back.

He fucks you against the wall that night. He begs you to come for him. He promises to hold you up when you’ve lost your balance, because he might not be able to protect you from every evil, but he can always hold you. It’s rushed and desperate, but sweet, too, like coming home. And sweet when you fall into him.


	9. In a Foreign Tongue

You knew he’d been dealing with Italians, but you never imagined he was dealing with them _in_ Italian.

Until you heard him over the phone, voice low and clearly a bit agitated, speaking in a foreign tongue. You could recognize the language, but not much more. Something about the intonations piqued your interest and you were still thinking about the exchange later that evening in the tub.

You closed your eyes and imagined the Tuscan countryside, golden in late afternoon sunlight. And Alfie. _Vacation_ Alfie. Lightweight slacks, bare feet against the sunbaked patio, a billowy white shirt only halfway buttoned with the sleeves pushed to his elbows. The fine hairs on his forearms glinting in the sunlight, a stray tuft of hair escaping his pomade in the afternoon breeze. And a wide smile that reached the corners of his eyes as he turned and saw you.

“You fall asleep?”

You opened your eyes to see him standing in the doorway, searching the murky bath water in hopes of spying skin.

“How did I not know you speak Italian?”

He stepped into the bathroom slowly. “You never asked.”

“I heard you on the phone today. Didn’t understand a word, but it sounded lovely.”

“Mm, yes, very romantic language, they say.” He sat on the edge of the tub and brushed a lock of wet hair from your shoulder where it had fallen from your coif.

“Certainly had me swooning.”

He smirked and leaned down to whisper. “_Damme un bacio_.”

Warmth flushed up into your cheeks and you had to suppress a giddy moan at the feel of his breath. “And what does that mean?”

He nuzzled his nose against your neck. “_Gimme a kiss_.”

You sought out his lips, and the moment you made contact, he scooped you up out of the tub.

“Water’s gone cold,” he reasoned, pressing your slick form tight against him.

You latched your arms around his neck, worried you’d slip from his arms. “You’ll soak your clothes.”

“Not to worry, I’ll have you remove them.”

You kissed him again, hard and deep enough to suck the air from his lungs as he carried you across the hall. Just before kicking the door shut, he pulled back away from you and licked his lips in anticipation. “Y’know, I speak Russian, too.”


	10. On Tip-Toes

By all accounts, Alfie’s not _that_ tall. As wide as his shoulders are, he relies on them to impose his stature. Well, them and his performed manic temper.

Which is not to say that he doesn’t have a temper. But he eggs it on in business deals, in the office, in mixed company.

He’d never dare raise his voice at you. It’s a line he absolutely cannot cross, even during arguments. He’ll get blustery and red in the face and pace about. Toss papers around and shove his hands angrily in his pockets. Sometimes he’ll walk right out the door to calm himself.

But the arguments are rare. Usually over what you know you can do that he thinks you better not–business dealings and the like. Sometimes about his tendency to work himself to death or not fucking take care of himself.

“You have a _person_ now, Alfie. A person that wants you alive and well as long as possible, you can’t be selfish anymore.”

He grunts when you say that, loathe to admit that you’re right, but also a little stunned by the idea that his wellbeing matters to someone other than Cyril.

Alfie’s not that tall, but you’re absurdly short, so when he’s standing at full height, you have to raise onto the tips of your toes to reach more than just the edge of his bottom lip.

He watches you struggle with his arms crossed, petulant and refusing to help you balance. “Knew it’d be fucking trouble, letting you ‘round here to fuss at me. _Try to get some sleep, Alfie. Eat a real breakfast, Alfie. Stop punching people in the face until your hand heals up, Alfie._”

You lower back onto the flats of your feet and glare up at him for just a moment until he hauls you bodily up to him. When he bends to reach you and his shoulders curve around you, you wonder if he could block out the sun. His beard seems softer than usual, and his lips firmer as he holds you tight to his chest. Your feet leave the ground entirely, and thank goodness for that, your curled toes could never hold you up.


	11. Good Morning

You wake up to the feel of coarse hair against your forehead. He’s at his softest, first thing in the morning, before he’s put on all the trappings of being Mr. A. Solomons.

The sensation is as fleeting as the dream you were having but can’t seem to remember, as his weight leaves the mattress. All sniffs and grunts and mumbles, one eye still squeezed shut against the intruding sunrise, footsteps heavy and clumsy as his joints loosen.

Your own eyes still shut, you hear him lift the toilet seat, porcelain taps against porcelain, and you try to will yourself back to sleep. You’ve got nowhere to be this morning, after all. And he shouldn’t either, it’s Saturday for god’s sake, but he’s insisted on working.

Your limbs are still heavy and your thoughts have started spinning back into dreams when he drops himself back onto the bed, splayed on top of you.

“Wake up,” he grumbles, his face smashed against your shoulder.

You peel your eyes open and groan, but it’s for show. The first sight of morning, broad back and thick fuzzy thighs—you could never be truly angry. You wrap lazy arms around him, thread the fingers of one hand through the thick hair at the crown of his head, hold him to you for just a moment.

“You’re crushing me, darling.”

He grunts and pushes himself up on thick, sturdy arms. You look up into his face, his drunken expression, and chuckle, not yet awake enough to spare him embarrassment.

“You havin a laugh at me?”

With his hair in absolute chaos, the imprint of a wrinkled pillow across his cheek, and squinted eyes, you could almost call him silly.

“You still look very sleepy.” You rub your thumb across his cheekbone. “And it’s very cute.”

His tired eyes turn into a glare and he rises onto his knees. He’s happy to be called handsome or sexy, and he’ll tolerate loveable. But Alfie Solomons isn’t cute, “I will not stand for the fucking infantilzation of all my scars and obvious wisdom, yeah? ‘Specially not first thing in the morning when I’ve not got m’wits to defend me.”

You sit up to meet him and pout your bottom lip, playing at patronizing him. “Poor darling, so sensitive.”

He’s straddling your thighs in this position, and he squeezes one in each hand, firm but affectionate. “Look here, peach. I’m not to be pitied.”

You lean forward so you can talk against his lips. “Is that right?”

He brushes his nose against yours. “I’m to be envied.” His kiss starts gently, but turns consuming in a breath, and you understand. Envied for what he has, the curve of your ass in one hand, your hair tangled in the other. Envied for what he can do, pulling sighs out with his tongue, teasing heat into everything he touches. King Midas for a new century, gold dust and lust.

You bury both hands into his hair, tug at the roots, pull a grunting moan out of him. You feel his erection press against your lower belly and think, just maybe, you can convince him to not go into work this morning.

But a sharp bark and a whine startle you apart. Cyril sits on the floor at the end of the bed, frowning as much as a dog can.

“Ignore him,” he mutters, snaking a hand under the hem of your shirt and reigniting the kiss.

Another whine and two front paws on mattress.

Alfie snaps his head away from you and around to the dog, who refuses to take a hint.

“The fucking balls on this one,” he mumbles, climbing furiously out of bed. Cyril pads happily ahead of his owner, pleased to be getting his breakfast.

Alfie turns back to you just before he hits the hallway. “Now don’t you fucking move, ay?”

You throw your head back onto the pillow, stretch languid like a cat, and grin. In the kitchen, you hear more mumbling, Alfie reasoning with his dog. “We fucking talked about this, mate.”


	12. An Accidental Brush of Lips

You’ve been working in the bakery for a month or so. Long enough that you’re finally remembering to call it a bakery even in your mind, lest you slip up. Long enough to have started dreaming about your employer in all sorts of inappropriate ways that you repress to the point of suffocation because it’s a _bad_ idea. And it’s bad business. Even if he makes lovely sounds in those dreams.

You like your job, you take it seriously, and you stay late most nights to avoid the bustle of early evening errand-runners. Camden comes alive around 5pm, and the bakery—well, _your_ territory in the bakery—quiets down. It’s not uncommon for you to stay an hour or two past closing time, finishing up paperwork, checking inventory.

One night, on your way out, the door to Alfie’s office swings open just as you’re passing it. In a stunner moment, its wooden frame smashes into your nose, your vision goes sharp and white, and you land soundly on your ass.

“The fucking—?” You’re vaguely aware of the confusion in his voice, and then you hear the hiss through his teeth when he sees you, presumably bleeding from the center of your face. “Oh fuck, pet, what’ve I done?”

You’d prefer death, at this particular moment. A black hole to swallow you up. Anything but being sprawled on the sticky floor like a goddamn rag doll while the man of your sexual fantasies stares at you in abject pity because he’s accidentally assaulted you.

“M’fine,” you mumble, determined to not make eye contact as you try to find your bearings.

“The hell you are, I had me full weight behind it.” He squats down, hands tentative to reach out and help you up. But with his shoulder to help balance you, both of you make it back onto your feet. And then you feel it: his hands on either side of your face, more gentle than even your dreams had assumed. You’ve still got your head tilted down, worried that your nose has swelled and that you’ll look ridiculous.

“Anything broken?”

You lift your chin, his fingertips guiding you. His face is much closer than you anticipated, ready to inspect your injuries, and in a paralyzing moment, your lips graze one another.

You wonder if he can feel you trembling, but if he can, he doesn’t let on. His gaze feels like fire, so you look up at him with all the courage you can muster. “Well then,” he whispers, smoothing a thumb against your cheek. “Lovely as ever.”

With a line like that, you can’t help but swoon. You kiss him purposefully then, even though it hurts your tender nose, even though you might collapse into him. His hands, once on your face, slide back to cradle your swimming head, and when he breathes in deep, you rise onto your toes and lean in. He solid and sturdy and warm under your palms and his mouth, _fuck_ his mouth turns up in a smile.

You break away, a mere inch at most, and he chuckles, low and rumbly. “What say we head to my place and I tend to your injuries a bit more, hm?”


	13. Headcanon Request: Back Story

  * Given his age, the history of Russia’s expulsions of Jewish populations, and emigration waves into London, I actually put my money on his family being from Kiev. This is trivial and doesn’t matter, but I did the research to put all of that together, so there ya go.
  * We know he went to boarding school with Sabini, and I imagine that’s where a lot of his motivations were born (credit to [@cavemanbowyer](https://tmblr.co/mmTHL3i94Ti0ADfzfkgHUDg) for helping me tease this out). I don’t know a LOT about English boarding schools, but I know that while the oldest ones were founded out of charity, in the latter half of the 19th century, they started becoming more elitist. I imagine that Alfie and Sabini ended up lumped together simply because they were immigrant children. Possibly got in on a “scholarship” or “grant” type of program, and they really felt class-stratification there. Being around the children of wealthy families was more than a mere annoyance; it was reality telling him that the only way to get ahead in life is to take what you want. He figures that’s how the wealthy got their wealth in the first place. He starts getting into trouble then, experimenting with intimidation tactics on fellow students.
  * He’s a captain during the War, meaning he likely joined the military before the War started. Maybe he got into some serious trouble and the military was an option over jail time (is that a thing in the UK like it sometimes is here in the States?) He could’ve gone career military. He obviously has the stomach for it. And during the War itself, all of the violence was a method for venting his temper. But battle leaves him with injuries, and they discharge him.
  * There would’ve been a year or two gap between the end of the War and the passing of Prohibition in the US—which is where I’m gonna assume most of his product goes. But the US passed a partial ban on high alcohol content liquor during the War to “save grain,” so even without the official amendment, he would’ve had a market for it. He might’ve dabbled in small criminal enterprises here and there prior to enlisting in the military, but the distillery is his first big venture.
  * The bakery front was in honor of his mother, I think. If you run a front for an illegal business, you’ve gotta be _intimately_ familiar with that front’s business in order to pull it off convincingly. So I think he knows a shit ton about baking. Maybe it was a side gig of his mother’s to make a little extra money where she could, so he learned about it from a young age.
  * Privately, he’s calm, measured, and polite to people. 100% would help an elderly woman across the street (though he might grumble that he’s only doing it to speed things along). But business is business, and as far as he’s concerned, anyone in “their world,” as he puts it with Tommy, has agreed to abide by that world’s rules. Rule #1: make it crystal fucking clear that you are not to be fucked with. Cue the development of his reputation, which he built a nice little foundation for in boarding school.
  * Jokes about being a “fucking sodomite,” but privately is a very good Jewish boy like his mother raised him to be. Sits shiva whenever he loses a man.
  * As time goes on and he doesn’t settle into having a family or anything, he sees the money he makes as a means to take care of the Jewish community in London.
  * Doesn’t sleep around, really. Did quite a bit when he was in the military, but now random fucking just makes him feel lonely like it did during the War.


	14. Distraction

Never, in a million years, would Alfie admit to liking a distraction, even in the form of a kiss. He prides himself on working, obsesses over it, all too often. So if you’re going to try to distract him with a kiss, you better come armed with determination.

Your first attempt is subtle, your lips pressed to the back of his head as he sits working at his desk. Breathing in the warm smell of his pomade and damp wool from the felt of his now discarded hat. He grunts in acknowledgement, assuming you’ll move on now, and you _do_ walk past. But then you turn back.

Your second attempt is more involved, reaching both arms forward around his chest. At least he leans back in his chair now, but still his tone is perturbed as he continues reading. “Working, love.” You bend down a bit so that you can reach his ear with your mouth. “Mm, and I do so love your work ethic.” Your voice is more breath than sound as you light a kiss at his neck. He doesn’t move an inch, doesn’t make a noise, but both your hands are pressed against his chest and you feel his breaths speeding and shallowing. You pull away altogether. “I’ll let you be, now,” you smile, pecking him quickly on the cheek. You grab a book from a nearby shelf and saunter over to an overstuffed chair in the corner of his office. It takes a bit of maneuvering, but you drape yourself across it, legs hanging over one of the arms, and you make sure that the hem of your dress rides up just the slightest so that he may see the top of one stocking and the edge of your garter.

You pretend to be immersed in your book, held so he can still see your face, but most of your attention goes toward your attempt at seduction. You arch back a bit and shift, under the guise of making yourself more comfortable. And perhaps it’s a happy accident that your dress slips down a bit further, exposing more of your thigh. You know well what he thinks of your legs, what he’s capable of between your legs. The lusty breath you draw at the thought is more genuine than the rest of the scene.

He clears his throat and you glance up, but his head’s still bent over paperwork. His nose is flared, though, and you’d bet money that he’d just reached his hand beneath his desk to adjust himself.

But he’s steadfast. Immovable, unwavering, impossible to distract. And then he swears.

You feign naivety, close the book over your finger as if to hold your place on a page you haven’t read a word of. “What’s that, dear?”

“Right, you can’t stay in here, doing that.”

“Doing what?”

He’s pushed his chair away, still sitting in it, glaring into your wide, innocent eyes. “Stretched out like a cat, there, yeah? Practically panting and flashing me.” His eyes have gone dark, his lips shining from where he’s licked and chewed at them in anticipation.

You knit your brow in sympathy. Poor Alfie, lust simmering in his veins. You set your book in the chair as you stand and smooth your dress. It only takes a few steps to reach him, and when you do, you place a hand on each arm of his chair, boxing him in. He lifts his nose up to you, long and straight, and you feel the breath from it on the exposed skin of your chest, warm and steady. A kiss to the corner of his mouth and you whisper, “I’ll leave you to your—.”

His hands are at your waist before you can finish your sentence. And then your ass is in his lap and his hand is up your dress and your tongue is in his mouth like you might be able taste his desire if you just kiss him the right way.

Alfie doesn’t have to admit that he likes a distraction. You can feel it in the soft rock of his hips underneath you, in the way he smiles against your mouth when you hold his face in your adoring hands.


	15. Headcanon Request: Dad!Alfie

  * He does _not_ handle pregnant crying very well, largely because everything he says somehow makes the crying worse.
  * He gets increasingly territorial over his expecting lady. He knows he’s being a bit ridiculous, so he tries to check himself when he realizes he’s hovering or being overprotective.
  * In private, he gets _seriously_ worshipful, almost religious about it. Might even have a bit of a kink about his lady’s remarkable body.
  * Straight up panics the first time someone hands the baby to him. Keeps looking to the midwife or physician or whoever with wide eyes like, “is this–am I–fuck, is this right, yeah?” He improves.
  * His occasional insomnia works out well when the baby’s new and sleeping at odd hours. He can’t be much help if it’s hungry, but if it just needs attention, he’s happy to pace around the house with it, muttering about everything under the sun.
  * Talks to the baby like it’s a grown person, including swearing. Everyone else around him tries to get him to stop, but it’s literally impossible, and he’s sure his kid’s first word will be “fuck.”
  * Very conspiratorial with the kid whenever they’re trying to play a silly trick on mama, or do something nice for mama. Gives the kid responsibilities, like his mom did for him. He doesn’t feel well-equipped to raise a kid, so the only alternative is to a raise an adult. In this way, he stumbles into being a generally good parent.
  * He’s whatever the opposite of a helicopter parent is, without venturing into neglectful territory. Certainly doesn’t want real harm to come to the kid, but thinks that the occasional bruise or bump from playing and running around is to be expected. The first time the kid needs stitches or a cast, it hurts his heart a little, but he’s sure to tell the kid he’s proud of them for being brave.


	16. A Touch on a Scar (NSFW-Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Penetration)

Alfie’s not a shy man. He’s not a man to be preoccupied by pleasantries, either, so even on your first proper date, he didn’t bother with small talk. He liked to tell stories, his face animated and engaging as he recalled an old friend or some childhood mischief. You expected him to be a bit more secretive, perhaps mysterious. He was a shady gangster, after all. But there was something simmering there, something eager to open up in bursting increments. What fair fortune put you in the position to receive all of it?

You considered the question again a couple of dates later, when he brought you back to his place. The tension was palpable as he busied himself making tea. He’d taken your hand on the car ride home, held it in his against his mouth for much of the drive. Now you didn’t particularly want _tea_, and you suspected he felt the same way. So it was just for propriety’s sake. The realization startled you, endeared you, even. He really _wasn’t_ a man to be preoccupied by pleasantries, but he was going against his nature for what he assumed was your benefit.

“Alfie?”

“Hm.”

“Do you really want tea?”

He turned, genuine confusion on his face. “Don’t _you_ want tea?”

It was an innocuous question, but if you opened your mouth to answer, your voice would come out squeaking. So you shook your head.

He flicked the stove off, and his steps toward you seemed to thud in time with your hammering heart. “Then why the fuck am I making tea?”

You closed your eyes, anticipated his hand at your waist or the back of your neck and his mouth against yours. But nothing. When you opened your eyes, his face was only a few inches away, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. You remembered, then, something he had said early on, about letting you set the pace of everything: _“Otherwise I’d have you right here, in an instant, yeah?”_ At the time, you thought it an exaggerated compliment, trying to win you over on the idea of a date. But it had been advice, and a consideration for you. And now the big brute was holding back on your behalf.

So you barely kissed him, just held his lower lip between yours until his hand landed carefully against your cheek. But when you heard him suck a heavy breath in through his nose, desperation kicked in and you coaxed his mouth open to better taste him. You’d kissed him before, of course, but the fleeting thrill of it left you little time to be purposeful in your movements. This kiss left no room for misunderstanding. This kiss, and what you prayed to god followed it, was the expedition _after_ the discovery. You had realized in a stunning instant that Alfie was a find. But now it was time to map the find, learn the names of its wonders, and pour love into all the cracked bits. You wanted to take your time. So you kissed him, and he kissed you back until it started drawing noises from both of you, until you were distracted away from his mouth by the gentle ache between your legs.

“I need to get these clothes off of you,” you muttered, tugging at the lapels of his jacket.

“Right.” He leaned away, fumbled with the buttons as if he were drunk, but you knew better. You felt it too, a soft sort of delirium.

All the same, he made quick work of his layers, dropping his jacket first, then his waistcoat. When he unbuttoned his shirt, you grabbed its tails and tugged him toward you, eager to feel him and kiss him again, _dear god was there a mouth more suited to kissing than his?_

You didn’t want to pull away from his lips, so you felt with blind hands up his chest, around his shoulders, and whispered a curse into his mouth.

He pulled away and looked at you with heavy hooded eyes. “What’s wrong?”

You laced your fingers behind his neck and took the moment to catch your breath. “How on earth are you this fit? You sit in an office most of the day.”

A pink blush bloomed across his chest and while you waited for his answer, you kissed him there, wondering how warm it felt. He wasn’t a shy man, and he wasn’t particularly modest. And while he carried himself with authority, it was a cerebral, not a physical kind. But there he stood, strong and solid and tensed beneath your hands.

He started back at the kissing, this time hot and breathy against your neck. “Y’know, I _was_ a military man for a fair bit of my life, yeah?” He slid the zipper down your back and nudged the sleeve off your shoulder with his nose. “I might be a wrecked old man from it, but I’m not exactly a fucking slouch.”

You laughed, imagining Camden’s most feared gangster with a fitness routine. But when you felt his breath against a nipple you hadn’t even realized was exposed, your laugh turned into a gasp. “You’re not an old man,” you argued. Only someone full of vitality could have you trembling like he did.

“I am, sweet. Has it’s perks though.” _For fuck’s sake, the man was literally talking around your nipple as if you were able to make sense of a word._ “M’very wise these days.”

His mouth returned to yours and you hummed in assent as he walked you backward across his house, into his bedroom, onto his bed. You sat at edge of it, watched him strip out of his trousers, and then he picked his train of thought back up. “I’m wise enough to know that I’ve not got the back to pound you into that fucking mattress, much as I might like to.”

You must’ve looked scandalized, perhaps disappointed, because he took your hand and kissed the palm of it. In truth you were falling in love with his candor. He climbed into the bed and sat back against the headboard, cock half hard and resting against his stomach. He reached his hands out to you, gave you the option to stand up and walk away. And it was very suddenly more intimate than fucking. You crawled into his lap and kissed the scar along his jaw that cut through his beard.

“See I’m also wise enough,” he began, turning your face back to look at him, “to know when I’ve got a good thing that’s needs taking care of.”

“I’m a big girl, Alfie. You don’t have to take care of me.”

“Nah, I’ve just not worked you up properly yet.”

It felt like a challenge, and the idea of it sent a thrill through you. He leaned forward like he meant to kiss you and you mirrored him, but just before your lips met, he pulled back. You followed him, obscenely hungry, but he pulled back again, mouth hung open and breath hot. Just as you tipped forward a third time with your heart ready to pound out of your chest, he surged to meet you. The gratification pressed an indecent whimper from you, and an equally indecent rock of your hips.

He smoothed your hair behind you and tilted your head to better reach your neck. Mouth to your skin, he grumbled. “Your pulse is fucking racing, love.” It was, and it was making you lightheaded. His lips latched to your breast again and you felt yourself slide smoothly against his now fully hard cock. You were almost embarrassed to find yourself already so aroused, but then he groaned, and you grew slicker and forgot the idea of shame.

His face was still against your chest, but it was his thumb, not his tongue, that circled the tender bud. “Fucking lovely. Like a ripe berry that is.” The rumble of his voice and the scratch of his beard and the callous on his excruciatingly slow circling thumb had you senseless.

“Please Alfie.”

He wrapped both arms around you, and lifted you a bit with one hand so that he could reach beneath you with the other. Clever fingers ghosted over your ass and around to your folds, so swollen and slick that you hardly recognized the feel of yourself.

His cock twitched between the press of you and he swore, but you interrupted him.

“I need you to know…” It was hard to string together a sentence with his fingers buried so carefully inside of you. “It’s never been like this before.”

He didn’t respond right away, possibly didn’t understand, but he kept his mouth at your breast and his fingers moving. “Like what?”

“Just kissing you, fuck, just the smell of you, and I’m wet.”

“You keep talking like that, I’m not gonna last long.”

It was a relief to know that he was just as vulnerable.

“I’m nearly–christ, Alfie, just with your fingers.”

He shifted you in his lap so that he could press you tight against his chest. “Look at me, love,” he whispered, slowing his ministrations until you thought you might weep. You met his eyes and nearly did weep, startled to see him looking so wrecked, his brows pulled together and raised. “Do you want me to keep with the fingers then?”

“I want all of you.”

You thought you felt his hand shake as he pulled it away to guide himself slow and deep into you. Had he starved for something like this as long as you had? Did he know that all of him meant _all_ of him, and not just his cock?

Seated deep within you, he kept his thrusts shallow, full, hard, and it nearly took your breath. One hand pressed flat against his chest, you reached up to the scar across his jaw again. You wished that you knew more about what had made him the way he was. You wondered what had happened to turn this pretty face into something altogether more handsome. You wondered what made him so eager to work so hard at drawing pleasure from you. Sweat beaded where your palm now held his shoulder, and knowing that he was willing to work for it sent you right to the edge.

“Fuck, I can feel–let go, love. I’ve got you.”

You did let go, in a sense, but it was really a tight clenching that pulled a choked grunt from him. It took a handful of slow, deep breaths to bring the pair of you back to your senses, but neither of you moved. When his cock had stopped twitching inside you, he wrapped heavy arms around your back and pressed his head to your chest. “Just as I feared, hm,” he mumbled. “Far better than I deserve.” You hugged his head tightly and shook your own, hoping he could feel the movement, hoping he knew that you disagreed.

“But I’m wise enough to accept a gift when I see it, yeah? And fuck me, you are a marvel to unwrap.”


	17. Stop Fussing

_Careful._

If you could be careful, maybe you could get away with it.

It was just too strong a temptation, and perfect timing, really. You’d been teasing him for weeks about his beard’s growing unruliness. He claimed it was for practical reasons, something about the weather turning so cold. But it had gone from dignified to manic in the last month, no matter how he tried to defend it.

He was sleeping flat on his back, arms tossed above his head, so it only took a bit of maneuvering to situate yourself over his waist. Once you were settled, you held your breath, hoping it wouldn’t wake him. His hips stirred beneath yours, but he kept snoring and his eyes remained shut. It was always startling to see him so soft and lovely like this in the morning. So startling, in fact, that you nearly abandoned your original mission in favor of kissing him awake.

But you kept your task in mind. You reached for the wiry hair that spread across his face and stroked it, getting his sleeping self used to your presence. He didn’t flinch. With a smile–a stifled laugh, really–you divided it vaguely into thirds. Still, not a twitch.

You were halfway through the task when his brow started to furrow. His hands flexed, empty and reaching for an answer as to what was disturbing his sleep. He shifted his hips again and seemed to realize that you were atop him.

“Mm, we having a good morning?” Oh, it was a delicious sound, his voice all raspy with sleep. But you shushed him.

“Hold still.”

His eyes cracked open as he raised an eyebrow. “Feeling bossy, love?”

“Shh, stop fussing. I’m braiding your hair.”

“Braiding my wha–” he pulled his chin away from your hands, and frowned as he grabbed it. “You braided my fucking beard?”

It was hard not to laugh at the disbelief in his voice, in his face. “I was making you pretty.”

He rolled to his side, unceremoniously knocking you off of him. “You don’t fucking braid a man’s beard while he’s sleeping.”

He was marching into the bathroom now, his hair matted in all directions, so you had to speak up. “You would’ve let me do it while you were awake?”

“Fuck no.”

_Maybe he was genuinely pissed_. You grimaced at the thought, and followed him in an attempt to smooth things over. He stood facing the mirror, frowning as he undid your hard work. You tested the waters with a palm to his back, and when he didn’t shrug away, you hugged around his waist.

“Didn’t mean to upset you, Al. You don’t need anything extra to look pretty.”

He squinted at your reflection and ran his hand back and forth across his face, leaning his weight back into you. “Right, well, I suppose I should clean it up a bit.”


	18. "I'll kill anyone that looks at you the way I look at you"

“The jealousy shit isn’t gonna fly, Alfie.”

“Well, I can’t fucking pretend to feel any different. I will kill anyone that looks at you the way I look at you.”

“Do you honestly think you have competition?”

That strikes a little too close to his heart, you think, even though he’d never admit it. He doesn’t respond, just grunts.

“It’s a modest dress, anyway, I don’t think–”

“It’s not the fucking dress.”

“What then?”

He scratches as his beard. “Something different about you lately.”

You hadn’t changed anything. Not a trimmed hair, not a new lip color. Nothing.

“I think it’s _you_. You’ve lost a screw, going all possessive caveman.”

You’re already his, he knows that. He never needed to lay claim in the first place. Then it hits and you turn to him with a sly smile.

“Alfie. Do you love me?”

He looks taken aback. Incredulous. Almost timid. He’d never said the words, he was ruled by some overly self-conscious stubbornness. Maybe even fear to admit it to himself. “I dunno. Maybe. Probably. Alright fine, I fucking love you, yeah? Goddamn schoolboy around you. You happy now I said it?”

You _were_. Self-satisfied more than anything, since you already knew he loved you. He petted your hair when he thought you were sleeping for Christ’s sake, of course he loved you. You smiled wide and he looked at you like a petulant child before breaking into his own softness. He had nothing to worry about: no one had ever looked at you the way he did.


	19. Home, Battered and Bruised

He tried being quiet about coming in. It was close to three in the morning, no doubt you were sleeping. And he didn’t want you fussing. But it was hard to stay quiet. He shut the door softly behind him, but he knew his feet were heavy and he couldn’t help grunting in relief once his bones realized he was home.

“Alfie?” You weren’t quite into the living room yet, maybe he could keep you from seeing.

“Yeah, just me love.” He thought whispering might hide the pain in his voice, but still, it wavered too much.

“What’s wrong?”

“Shush, go back to bed.”

“Are you hurt?” You walked in, arms wrapped tight around yourself, eyes sleepy. But they cleared when they spied his red hand. “Jesus Alfie, is that blood?”

No use hiding it from you anymore. He pulled his hand away from his stomach and grimaced. “Yah, just a little.”

You rushed over, pulled his coat back, tore at his waistcoat, reached the once white shirt underneath and gasped. “What happened? Who did this?”

“Ollie’s fucking problem became my fucking problem.”

You gathered an old blanket and spread it on the sofa. “Shirt off, lie down. Wait, Ollie did this?”

He waited until you returned from the bathroom with a basket that served as a first aid kit, then explained. “Idiot child he is, slept with a woman without knowing she was married. Fuck’s sake, go on and do it if you must, but know who’s coming after you if it goes bad, yeah? Husband showed up drunk, went after Ollie. ‘Diffuse the conflict,’ I thought to meself. Fuck lot of good that did me, innit?”

With alcohol soaked cotton, you dabbed at the angry laceration. You were going to _slap_ Ollie next time you saw him. “So he stabbed you?”

He nodded without a wince. You knew the alcohol was cold and stung, but he was a tough brute. “Came at me with a fucking knife. Good aim for being piss drunk, yeah?”

“How dead is he?”

He laughed at that, then grunted. He could take a lot of pain, but the wound was in a particularly tender spot. Shallow, not fatal in any way, but right in the midst of muscles that would ache as they healed in the days to come. “Nah, didn’t kill him. Think he shit himself when he realized what he’d done. And I might’ve broken his nose for good measure. It’s Ollie’s business now.”

Content that the gash was clean, you dug through the rest of your supplies to find a needle. “Well you’re not going to bleed out, but it needs stitching.”

“Figured as much. Be gentle with me?”

You shot him an incredulous look. “_Always_. Why aren’t you in a pissier mood over this?”

You began stitching him up, the only indication that he felt anything the occasional eye twitch. “Keeps life interesting, yeah? ‘Sides, I’ve got you here in your skimpy little nighty, playing nursemaid.”

Tying off the last stitch, you swiped the lingering smears of blood from his stomach and prepared gauze and tape to keep it covered. “Only you would manage to get turned on while bleeding.”

“Oh spare me, love, I’m not a fucking lecher. It’s the old adage, yeah. A brush with death ignites a craving for life.”

He was petting your shoulder–all he could really reach with you on the floor to reach his wound. It was an uncommonly tender touch, and paired with the puppy eyes he was serving, you nearly fell for it. But you’d not have him ripping his stitches just after you’d finished them.“A valiant effort, darling. But not a fatal wound.”

You stood up to put the medical supplies away, but he grabbed your hand. “Alright, not a brush with death then. But I’m in pain, love. Need to balance it with a bit of pleasure.”

You couldn’t stop yourself from laughing, equal parts endeared and baffled by his persistence. “You’ve got healing to do, Alfie.”

“Give us a kiss at least.”

_That_, you were glad to do. Feeling mischievous, you made it a good one. Long and slow and torturous. But then he was holding onto your face with both hands, and he slipped his tongue against yours with a little groan, and suddenly you were the one being tortured, forgetting yourself.

You pulled back and glared at him. “I know what you’re doing.”

“Mhmm. Almost worked, didn’t it?”


	20. Cliché

The lights were on when you got home. He must’ve called it an early day.

“Alfie?”

“Stay in there,” he called. Then you heard some knocking about and a muffled curse, “_fucking son of a bitch_.”

You took off your hat and your thin jacket, only half paying attention to where you sat them on the arm of the sofa. “Is everything alright?”

“What? Yeah, fine. Don’t, uh, don’t come into the bedroom.”

Child that you were, now you wanted nothing more than to go into the bedroom. And when music poured out of it, curiosity finally got the better of you. But he trudged out of the room before you could take a step, and straightened immediately when he saw you.

He had on a proper suit, dark and sharply pressed, with a tie and everything. He’d slicked his hair back too, and it only took a moment for the musky smell of his aftershave to waft its way toward you. He was always a clean man, to be sure, but this level of grooming and presentation was…_suspicious_.

“What happened? Did someone die?”

“Not last I heard.”

“Alfie, you look like Rudolph Valentino in your fine suit there, something happened.”

“Do you like it?”

_You did_. Something about the precision of it gave his already impressive bearing an extra layer of gravitas. “You strike a lovely figure darling, but I’m confused.”

He beckoned you to him with a crook of his finger and for a brief moment, confusion was replaced by a warm desire. He took your wrist once you reached him, gave you a quick peck to the cheek, then pulled you into the room.

Your suspicion grew. Flower petals on the bed, candles flickering warmly atop every flat and sturdy surface, the gramophone moved in from the living room warbling out something soft and slow in the corner.

“What’s this all about?”

He shrugged, took your hands into his, and pulled them up around his neck. “Now, I don’t fucking dance, right? But I’ll gladly hold you like this, and we can, I dunno, _sway_. If you like.”

You kept one hand at the short ends of his hair, but let the other fall down to his chest where his heart was racing. At this point, you weren’t sure you wanted an answer regarding the scene. But after only a few moments of silence, he spoke up again.

“Thought I’d do something nice for our anniversary.”

You pulled your head back to look at him and saw him searching your eyes frantically. _What had him so riled_? “It’s lovely, really. But our anniversary already passed. And I thought we’d celebrated…quite thoroughly.” You flashed back to the memory of him literally tearing a rather nice pair of panties off of you.

“Mm, yes, well, I meant our new anniversary.”

His hand rose up between the two of you. He didn’t have to reach in a pocket and you wondered if he’d been holding it in his hand the whole time. Then you realized what it was. A thin little gold band and a fiery red stone, held carefully between his thumb and forefinger.

Oh, but it was so categorically unlike him that you could hardly process what he meant. He pressed his lips against your temple and asked, “marry an old man?”

You wondered, in that moment, if a person’s mind could experience whiplash. “You said—hold on, when I asked you, years–bloody _years_ ago–what we were doing, the two of us, you said you weren’t the type for marrying.”

“Apparently I had me fucking fingers crossed. Look, we don’t have to. I saw this in a window and it looks like you, dunnit? Went in to ask about it and the jeweler called it an engagement ring. Knowing me, yeah, I should’ve scoffed, or said no, only a little gift. But I just nodded me fucking head. Seemed right.”

God it was sweet. You would’ve paid to have been a fly on that wall, watching him confuse himself. “All of this,” you gestured. “Why? You could’ve just asked me without all this fuss.”

His nose twitched, his eyes darted about, his voice lowered in defensiveness. “Got fucking nervous. Speaking of, m’gonna die of suspense here if you don’t answer me soon.”

“You know I already said yes, all those years ago.”

“Wanna hear you say it now.”

You couldn’t help rolling your eyes. “_Yes_.”

He pressed his lips up to yours but spoke instead of kissing. “Little louder, think I missed it.”

So much mischief, for all his superficial seriousness. You liked feeding into. “If you want me to say ‘yes’ any louder, you’re going to have to make me.”

He lowered a wide grin to your neck. “Fucking hell, how am I ever gonna make a proper woman out of you?”


	21. Allow Me to Give You the World

If you’d been taught one thing since moving to Camden, it was that Alfie Solomons was trouble. You had no time for trouble.

You had an ailing uncle to care for, and a factory job that didn’t pay enough, and not an ounce of support in the world. Long days kept you busy, and you had no business in his part of town anyway. The man would never be a concern. So your uncle’s daily insistence that you stay well and clear of the devil was–in a word–_exhausting_.

“Yes, uncle.”

“I won’t, uncle.”

“I _promise_, uncle.”

But as summer arrived and the town thawed, Alfie Solomons’ name found itself on more than just your uncle’s tongue. All the women at the factory sighed and swooned over the handsome gangster, made of money, who walked his dog now that the weather was warming.

“Isn’t he a criminal?” you asked your colleagues, more than once.

_“Oh, just a bit mischievous.”_

“He’s killed people, yes?”

_“Only ones that deserved it.”_

“He’s got a violent temper.”

_“What else would you expect from such a passionate man?”_

Silly girls, the lot of them, without an ounce of sense between them. You shook your head and rolled your eyes and wiped the sweat that gathered at your brow. Menial work was uncomplicated, but tiresome, and as temperatures climbed outside, the factory sweltered.

On a particularly stifling day, when two women had already fainted, the factory closed its doors early in the afternoon. Out of your typical routine and a bit lightheaded, you daydreamed as you walked home, eyes wondering around streets that looked different with the sun so high in the sky.

Then your gaze landed upon Solomons himself, dressed down in the heat, walking toward you as he muttered to his companions. You weren’t so flustered as the other women in the factory at the sight of him, but he was an intriguing figure. Not terribly tall or large, but still very commanding. You tried to avert your eyes once he was close enough to notice your presence, but he caught your stare. And stared back, with clever, albeit sad eyes. His head turned and his look lingered as he passed without a word to you, and the weight of it only made the summer air hotter.

The next day, he showed up at the factory, asking for you. The floorman’s ghostly complexion when he summoned you had you furious on his behalf, so you pelted Alfie with suspicious questions. _“How did you know where I work? How did you know what name to ask for? What do you want with me?”_

_Dinner_ was the last word you expected to hear, but he said it so softly that you nearly blushed.

You went begrudgingly, but only because a proper dinner sounded lovely. What matter if he kissed your hand like a gentle prince?

You agreed to a second dinner, but only because the first one had been so delicious. What matter if he made you laugh with ludicrous stories?

You kissed him, but only because he had been so charming. What matter if his satisfied hum lit fire in your belly?

You spent a day at the beach with him, but only because the weather was perfect. What matter if you felt safe when he pulled you to his chest?

But you would not go to bed with him. You didn’t like him, he was trouble, you’d promised your uncle, you were missing too many shifts as it was, and if you went to bed with him, then it all _meant_ something.

He never asked, never let himself get too carried away, even though his hands twitched to touch the covered parts of you, even though you kept kissing him like a woman half-starved.

Until one day he asked: if he’d done something wrong, if you were afraid of him, of what he did. And you weren’t, not anymore. But your job, and your uncle, and your _nothing_ that you carried around on your shoulders, heavy as shame. You had nothing, and no one, and now you were drunk on the muchness of him. Perhaps you weren’t thinking straight, blind with love and lust and the warm comfort of a companion.

You spilled your heart to him, and the bastard caught every drop in his strong, capable hands. Said he didn’t like you wanting for anything, that a woman like you should be loved well. Said he knew it as much the first time he saw you and all the life in your eyes. And he knew he’d been right the first time he kissed you.

“Right, I’ll start slow,” he said, his fingers carding through the ends of your hair, “but allow me to give you the world.”


	22. “The downhill path is easy, come with me if it please ye; we shall escape the uphill by never turning back.”

This is the philosophy of a young Alfie, by no means fresh or innocent, but full of determination just after the War. He’s watched men die for no good reason, killed men for no good reason, all under the auspices of peace and righteousness. Now he’s absolutely sure that all those big institutions–government, law, patriotism–are oppressive powers. Fuck ‘em.

And fuck the police, too, bloated tendrils of tyranny, looking for easy targets, looking to keep the little people down. He’ll have none of it anymore.

So the downhill’s easy. Falling into criminal enterprise is risky, but it’s only as hard as you make it on yourself. And if you’re smart, and you’re not too greedy, and you maintain a healthy distrust of everyone you meet, it’s hardly even work in the beginning.

Doesn’t stop him from falling in love with the police chief’s daughter.

She’s just as sure of her beliefs in the virtue of law, the justice it provides, as he is of its corruption. She’s so sure, in fact, that he admires her for it. Knows she believes in it because _she’s_ really that good, deep down, all the way to her bones. Good and honest and fair.

He tries telling her that she could still be all of that and be with him. “It’s only _criminal_ because the people with all the money and all the power don’t want the likes of me joining them.” She loves him, knows that he has a good heart, even if there’s blood on his hands. She tells him that he could turn away from it all, keep out of trouble, use his cleverness to make an honest living.

And he loves her, but that’ll never fucking happen. The downhill was easy. The uphill? He’d die in the attempt. He doesn’t bother looking back at it anymore. Besides, there’s nothing good at the top of the hill.

But he forgets to say “_except for you.” _Probably the first time he truly broke a heart. He doesn’t blame her for fading from his life.

He’s a very bad man, it seems. What a shame he always loves the very good women.


	23. “I could have warned you—but you are young, and I speak a barbarous tongue.”

To Tommy, after Grace’s death. Maybe he puts it in a letter he never sends off, ‘cause god knows it’d be too harsh. Never tell a man whose lost his wife “I could’ve warned you.” ‘Specially not a man who’s willing to kill you.

But he could’ve. Could’ve warned Tommy against a lot of things. It’s not that he’s a little boy, but even just ten years’ difference makes…well, a _difference_. You know not to punch above your weight, for instance, which Shelby seems determined to do.

But in the man’s defense, he doesn’t often give Alfie a reason to say “told you so.” He does plenty that Alfie would advise against, but he manages to come through it in the end. But then, if the Somme hadn’t killed him, maybe nothing could.

Grace, though, Alfie would’ve warned him against that. He never would’ve listened, partly ‘cause he loved the woman, and partly ‘cause he couldn’t quite speak Alfie’s language.

See, Alfie’s language was all brutal honesty and unpleasant truths. Tommy wasn’t ready for that–still believed his own legend.


	24. “When the light was extinguished, she covered me warm.”

Mum,

Haven’t done this in ages, have I? It’s no excuse, but I get busy. Tell myself you’re not going anywhere anyway.

Just a joke.

Miss you more lately. Found a girl, a proper woman, I think you’d like her. Think that’s why I miss you, not having a chance to introduce you. I think all the time, nowadays, ‘bout you standing in the kitchen, kneading away, telling me I better watch, ‘cos a man who bakes will have his pick of a wife. Tess can’t bake a loaf of bread to save her goddamn life, so I guess it’s good I learned.

That’s her name, Tessa. Baking bread’s about the only thing she can’t do. Puts me in my place when I’m being a right prick. Knows what she wants out of life, smart as a whip. Smarter than me. Lovely, mum. She’s so pretty it hurts. Get a little ache in my chest when I see her. S’pose it’s love, and you’d tell me as much.

But it’s more than that, too. Don’t want to worry you, but days have been dark. Had been dark, I should say. She takes care of me, keeps the dark at bay. She’s American, a little Southern darling, and I think she soaked in all the sunlight. Golden hair, bright eyes, warm in all this London grey. She’d have melted the Russian winter, I swear it.

Feels like home for the first time since you left.

Love you, b’shalom.


	25. Incoming Call (Modern AU, NSFW-Phone Sex)

Alfie Solomons was not a gangster, he’d made that quite clear. He was an entrepreneur, a small business owner, a pillar of the community.

_Not_ a gangster.

But there was no denying he was infamous. And you kinda liked that about him. You liked watching people’s eyes widen when you mentioned him, mentioned being with him. You were such a fine young woman, a boon to the family name and fortune with your philanthropy and activism. All of the wealthy, near-aristocratic sorts were scandalized by your beau, thinking him your precise opposite, not to mention a menace. But they never saw you for the Robin Hood you were–prying their privileged riches from their hordes to give it to better causes. You and Alfie weren’t all that dissimilar. You played by the rules, dismantling things from within. His approach was more like firing cannons.

On those occasions that sent you traveling far out of town, you imagined yourselves as quite the power couple. Him at home, you abroad, charming the world til it melted like putty in your hands. But you missed him, too. Flying to the States usually meant separation for at least three weeks. And while you were both independent adults, after 18 nights away from him, the missing had grown into yearning, an impatient craving.

So even though you were preparing to turn in early for the night, when your phone’s screen flashed his number, you perked right up.

“Hello, Alfie.”

“Ah, there’s that lovely voice. How’s my special lady?”

“Mm, exhausted. Glad you called, though.”

“Yeah?”

“Always.”

“What’s worn you out?”

He’s good at this—good at checking in, taking note of how you were doing, listening to complaints without trying to solve everything. But you don’t feel like moping at the moment. It’s just work, after all. Nothing important.

“The usual. Lots of meetings with lots of people. An aspirin and a hot bath should do the trick.”

You hear the low rumble of a quiet laugh and smile to yourself. “Now that’s a pretty picture.”

“What’s that?”

“You,” his voice drops an octave and goes softer, “soaking in a bath. Where are you now?”

A flame of exhilaration licks up into your stomach because you know what the answer will trigger.

“Hotel bed. Propped against the pillows.”

“Comfortable?”

“Lonesome.”

“Ah well, we can’t have that, can we?”

“Are you home?”

You could swear you hear the rustle and metallic clink of a belt. “Mhm.”

“I miss you, Alfie.”

“What are you wearing?”

You can’t suppress a laugh at the cliched line. “The cream blouse, that ties at the neck.”

“Mm, I like that one. Like tugging the bow open, feel like I’m unwrapping you.”

“And the red pencil skirt. The one that looks like merlot.”

“Ah, see, you look lovely in that one, but it’s a pain in my arse, trying to get to you in it. Restricting, can’t hardly open your knees.”

That lights a spark right in the core of you. “Do I need to open my knees?”

“Oh yes.”

That voice. That rough, delicious voice has you out of sorts. “Alfie.”

“Love it when you slide it off though. How you shift and rub your thighs together. Fuck me, do you know what a sight you are?”

“Mm, tell me.”

“Take off your skirt.”

“Already gone.”

He grunts at that. “Wanna run my hands along those legs of yours.”

“Rather have them wrapped around you.”

You hear laughter on the other end. “You’re a right minx, aren’t you?”

“It’s been too long without you. You hard yet?”

A bit direct, but he answers just as pointedly. “Like a fucking stone.”

You stifle a moan–at the image of his stiff cock _and_ at the knowledge of the effect you have on him. “Tell me how you’d touch me.”

“Unbutton your blouse.” His voice is clipped as he adds, “only halfway. Which bra you wearing?”

“The sheer nude one. With the lace.”

“Mm, the low-cut one your tits nearly spill out of?”

“That’s the one. Want a picture?”

“No, just your voice. Wanna hear you describe it.”

“Breathing heavy like this, it’s almost tight enough to hurt.”

“Can you see your nipples through it?”

“Yes, god, they _ache_ for you Alfie.”

“Fuck, I want to lick ‘em through the fabric, yeah? Nip at them.”

You tug the edge of your bra down until they peek out and thumb them, no substitute for his own calloused fingers.

“I hear you panting, pet, you still thinking of me?”

“_Always_.”

“Bet your sopping wet. Reach those lovely fingers of yours down and tell me if you’re wet for me.”

You already know the answer, you can feel it in the slick slip of your thighs against one another. But you take the instruction as permission to finally tend to building ache between your legs.

“Over your panties.”

You groan, _loudly_, hoping it’ll torture him somehow. But it was a good call on his part. Finding the material soaked through puts you in awe of your own arousal and your hips lift into your own touch. “Shit, Alfie, I’ve even drenched the sheets.”

He growls at that and it sounds like he nearly dropped his phone. “Slip two fingers between your folds. Imagine they’re mine. Wanna feel the heat of you, all slick and swollen. Or would you rather me lick you clean?”

Your shared moans at that suggestion twine together. But you have just a bit more of your wits about you than he does at the moment, and you take full advantage. “Can I tell you a secret?” you keep your voice breathy and wait for his grunted affirmation. “When you finger me? What really gets me off is the sight of your forearm.”

He makes a strangled sound, but you keep going. “Hard and thick between my thighs. Like watching the muscles tense and flex in time with the stroke of your fingers, my god, so fucking sexy.”

“You’re gonna _end_ me, you know that?” You can hear his fraying resolve the in syllables he can only manage to breathe out. But he’s determined to hold out. “Your fingers inside that pretty cunt?”

“Yes.”

“Bury ‘em. Deep. They’re mine, love. Still got my rings on, I know you like that.”

Your rhythm falters at that and you curse.

“Curl ‘em in and up toward that soft navel of yours. That’s it,” he encourages, his voice a velvety caress. “Chase that feeling. Fuck, you look stunning like that.”

You imagine the sly curve of his plush mouth as he praises you, and that sends you over the edge. Not usually one to be noisy, you let yourself cry out for his benefit. “Alfie, please,” you beg, drawing the climax out, desperate to pull him with you. “I want to feel full of you. I need it, the thick stretch of your cock.”

You knew that would do it. “M’coming,” he shudders, “fucking coming,” but you don’t need the words, you can hear the strangled groan, the soft, frantic sound of flesh meeting flesh. A second, gentler warm wave hits as you picture him, slack-jawed, neck flushed and straining, fingers fisted around his cock as his hips buck upward. It’s not nearly as erotic as the real presence of him, but it gives you the same hazy sense of satisfaction that follows the come down. Nothing but heavy breaths between the two of you for a moment.

“You still with me, love?”

“Mhm.”

You can almost hear his smile. “You sound good.”

“I _feel_ good.”

“You come back well-rested, yeah? We’ve got business needs tending to.”

The room’s pitch dark now. A bath will have to wait til morning. “Sleep, you insatiable man. And dream of me.”


	26. A Ridiculous Conversation (NSFW-Pregnancy Kink)

Alfie never asked you on a date—he asked for a kiss.

Alfie never asked you to move in—he asked why you bothered paying rent when his bed was large enough to share.

He never asked you to marry him—he woke up one morning and realized the two of you had forgotten to make it official.

Life with Alfie just _happened_ like this_; _couldn’t be planned or premeditated. That was part of the magic. You had important talks when you needed to have them, heated arguments when you couldn’t fucking agree, and the rest fell into place.

But then some poor girl showed up at the bakery, demanding to speak with Ollie. And clutching to her skirts with a tiny, chubby hand, was the spitting image of Ollie, no more than three years old. So Alfie watched the little man as mum and dad cursed and shouted in the next room over, ‘cause the kid didn’t need to hear that fucking fuss. And you happened to drop by his office just as he was steadying the boy on his knee with careful hands and asking him if he liked dogs, “’cause I’ve got a dog big enough you could ride him like a fucking horse, mate.”

Seeing Alfie with a kid, should’ve been like watching a fish climb a tree. But it was easy. Easy to watch him explain the paperwork at his desk like the boy would have some input. Easy to watch Alfie feign indignation when still-clumsy fingers reached up and pulled his glasses off the bridge of his nose. Easy to watch him ruffle his hand through the dark mess of hair, “mop like this, no fucking doubt you’re Ollie’s.”

You’d thought about that sight every night since, trying to talk yourself out of starting a Ridiculous Conversation. But it was building, and bubbling despite the absolute truth that your shared lifestyle was not suited for children, or a family, or dull domesticity. And yet there he sat, leaned against the headboard, sipping a nightcap while he mended his fucking shirt.

“Hmm?” He frowned at you, sewing needle pressed momentarily between his lips as he tied off his last stitch.

“What?” It broke you from your reverie, realizing that you’d been staring.

Finished with his task, he tossed the needle in the bedside drawer. “Look like you’re sizing me up,” he mumbled. “Something’s on your mind.”

You shook your head, determined to not start the Ridiculous Conversation. But he knew you better than that. Knew all the best ways to tease a confession out of you. He turned toward you and smoothed a kiss to your bare shoulder.

“I didn’t mind it, yeah? You looking at me like you planned to eat me.”

“It’s nothing, Alf. Just watching you.”

His lips were pressed to your neck now and he hummed, skeptical-like. “Nah, pet, you’ve been different lately. You’re holding back.” He licked just below your earlobe and you couldn’t help but hold his head in place and whisper his name in relief. 

“Talk to me, love.”

You didn’t want to talk about it. Didn’t want to consider what it might change between the two of you, or within yourself. But you did want _something, _even if you couldn’t quite put your finger on it. You went with the first thing that came to mind: “I want you to fuck me properly, Alfie.”

That gave him pause and he looked up, lips shining from the wet kisses he’d laved on your collarbone. “Fuck, have I been doing it improperly?”

His handsome face looked so concerned, so taken aback, that you couldn’t bear to keep confusing him. “No. I keep–Jesus, this is ridiculous.”

“Just fucking tell me, love, it’s fine.”

You petted his beard, always reassured by the wiry softness of it. “I keep thinking about you and Ollie’s boy. Watching you with a kid, it–I don’t know, it set me off.”

His brows nearly jumped off his forehead, and his eyelids drooped like he was having to work to keep them open. “How do you mean?”

“Seeing you with him, talking to him gently, watching over him. It flipped a switch, like it’s out of my control.” You took a deep breath before finally admitting it. “I want it, want one with you.” You scrubbed at your eyes, apparently embarrassed that you were talking to your husband about children. _God forbid_. “Every time I look at you, it’s all I think of.”

He took a moment to consider. Scratched his beard that you’d just released. Grunted, more out of curiosity than anything else. “Me putting a baby in you?”

Such a simple notion, but hearing him say it felt like a bolt of lightning passing through. You couldn’t help but squirm.

“It’s old-fashioned, I know. I’m a modern woman, Alfie, I feel ridiculous. But there’s something primitive in it—“

He grinned. “Primitive can be good, love. ‘Specially if it gets you like this, fucking hell, it’s like the first time.”

You laughed a little, breathless with relief and exhilaration that he didn’t shut the conversation down. But there was nostalgia too, a satisfaction in knowing that you’d kept something remarkable going with him. “‘Except we know each other better now. God, the first time was all sloppy mouths and rushing.”

“Mm, and lots of lovely sounds out of you. Fucking desperate, you were.”

“You didn’t take much convincing either.”

“‘Course not. Look at you.” He did just that. Sat on his knees and raked his eyes over the length of you, stretched out before him. When he was satisfied, he reached down to hold your hips through your nightgown. “Bet these’d bear a child well.”

Your whole body blushed. He’d lavished every imaginable compliment on you over the years, many of them filthy, but that suggestion had you flushed, head-to-toe.

He used his grip to pull you toward him, and when he could reach, he ran both hands up to your breasts. He thumbed the hardened nipples he found, slow and gentle. “And these. They’d swell a bit, wouldn’t they? Grow tender.”

“_Fuck_.” Your cunt clenched down on nothing, alive at the imagined sensation of aching breasts for him to tend to. He mouthed at the soft underside of one, careful to avoid the nipple, until the fabric was cool and damp.

Reaching under your gown with the hand that wasn’t holding him upright, he ran his fingers up the inside of your thigh. Halfway to his destination, he felt wetness and cursed.

“Fucking desperate for it, aren’t you,” he whispered into your ear, trying to turn his shock into seduction. “My cock. My seed.”

A whining moan tore through you. At his hand slipping through your folds, his voice rough in your ear, those words. The thought of it. Old fashioned, yes, but true. Part of you wanted part of him planted in you, irrevocably tied to you. But then he pulled away entirely, leaving you to nearly weep.

When you opened your eyes, you saw he was stark naked, hard cock in his fist, eyeing you like prey. “On your belly.”

You almost wanted to protest: you preferred being able to watch his face. But his commanding tone licked fresh desire through your limbs, and you complied.

He rucked your gown up over your hips, smoothed his hands across your ass, and ran his fingers down the backs of your thighs. Then he pressed his mouth against your spine, peppered whispers and kisses wherever he could reach. “You are fucking good to me, wife. Wet and willing.”

Every inch of you shivered. You couldn’t help arching your hips back toward him, his searing mouth, his hard torso, his weeping erection. That was enough permission for him. He entered you in one smooth stroke and groaned like a man possessed, “_fucking hell_.” He liked it, too, this fantasy. You could feel it in his shaking breaths, something vulnerable happening to him.

“Alfie.”

“Is this what you wanted, wife? My cock filling you?”

“Yes. Yes, oh _god_.” Wanted it more than you’d ever wanted anything.

“I know. So fucking good like this. You’re taking it so well.”

You tried to meet his rhythm, but it was unpredictable, forceful, overwhelming. You felt your walls fluttering around him and he must have felt it too because he slowed.

“Not yet,” he whispered, draping himself over you. “I want you to savor it, yeah?” He kept himself upright with his left arm planted on the mattress and reached his other hand to splay across your belly. “The thought of you carrying my child right here? Do you know what that does to me?”

“I can feel it,” you said, feeling rather like you might burst out of your skin. He pushed deep on the next stroke, determined to make sure of that. You placed a hand on top of his, still pressed to your stomach. There was something sacred in the way he held you there, and when your fingers locked with his, his forehead came to rest between your shoulder blades as he thrusted.

“God, you will be fucking stunning, you know that?” His hand slipped down to your clit and rubbed quick, light circles. “Come for me, love. Come around me while I come inside you.”

_Will_, he’d said. Not _would_. You _will_ be stunning. And that ended you. You felt the warm splash of his release deep within you, and that warmth seemed to flood to every nerve ending. And so sensitive like this, each kiss he stamped across your damp shoulders sparked a small, divine fire beneath your skin. He was heavy atop you, in the most comforting way, and you would’ve been happy to suffocate beneath the weight of him. But when he was sure that both of you had calmed, he rolled to his side and took you with him.

When you were settled on your back, flushed and sweaty, he crawled atop you once more and buried his face in your neck. Without preamble, he slipped two fingers inside you and moaned when you whined. “I know, pet. It’s tender and swollen, but fuck, your cunt is magic. I want you to remember this feeling, this love, yeah?”

You were mindless at this point, no longer hurtling toward a climax, but luxuriating in his indulgent touch. You adored him, overwhelmingly in that moment. You fell asleep that night under his watchful eye and dreamt of his shaggy head pressed to your belly, whispering love.


	27. Headcanon Request: How does Alfie go about bedding a shy girl?

Carefully. Slowly. Doesn’t try to work out why she’s shy or convince her not to be. She’s well within her rights.

He’s encouraging, too. Everybody likes a bit of praise now and then, but a shy girl gets extra, yeah?

There’s something nice about it, though. Assuring her that he’ll make it good, make her feel good. Might not be the real filthy talk he’s been known to give others, but the whispers are sweeter, and it’s all real soft.

And that’s a challenge for him, in a way. The world has not been soft to Alfie, and it’s been a long time since he tried being soft to it. He forgets how sometimes, but a shy girl helps him remember. ‘Cause for all his rough edges, he will not scare a woman or make her uncomfortable in his bed. So while it’s his habit to tear at stubborn buttons and keep a firm grip, he tries a bit of delicacy on her behalf. Truth is, even the brazen ones shiver at a soft and slow touch of his fingers along the tender inside of their arm, the shell of their ear.

A shy girl gets that touch everywhere, as slowly as he can manage it against his impulse to ravish. Slowly, until the shyness starts melting away and she’s all but begging for something harder, faster. He’s happy to oblige, gets off knowing he got her there.

Even then, lots of praise spoken into the very pores of her skin where it soaks in, so that next time—and he prays there’s a next time—she’ll have the courage to undress him, demand something from him, scratch and claw at him just to get him closer.

The shy ones don’t stay shy long.


	28. Headcanon Request: Young Alfie

  * He read more than any of the other students, but never what was assigned. That asshole read _The Brothers Karamazov_, in Russian, when he was like, 15. Teachers did _not_ like him, often because he told them he knew more than them.
  * If it didn’t feel immediately applicable, he had very little interest in it, but he had a soft spot for languages. He was very good at math, but hated it.
  * He wasn’t really one for sports, but if he was required to, and if wrestling had been an option, that’s probably what he would have settled for. Closest he could get to fighting a person.
  * He _did_ get in lots of fights. Most people thought he chose random targets, but in reality, he was watching to see which classmates were the worst of the bullies and he’d kick their asses. (Don’t let that get out and ruin his reputation.) 
  * He sprouted early then stopped growing, so by fourteen, everyone else was passing him. It added a certain level of rage and a need to prove himself. He learned to throw a hell of a punch, but he got pissed anytime someone called him scrappy. Most of the time, that someone was Sabini.
  * His mother was always baffled when the school would contact her about his terrible behavior. At home, he set the table and did his chores and helped make extra money with side jobs. He misread her confusion for disappointment and spent a lot of energy kicking himself for making her life more difficult.


	29. Headcanon Request: Alfie's Family

I vaguely imagine him having a sister that’s much younger than him. Technically a half-sister. She’s off doing very impressive things in college and has only ever known him as a troublemaker and criminal. But when she was very little, he helped look after her. Her father died in the war and it’s a point of tension between them. In an alternate universe where there’s no cancer and Alfie lives, I imagine them reconnecting as settled adults, two people who ended up orphaned and learned self-reliance in two very different ways. In every scenario, I imagine his mother dies before the war.

But he puts together a found family of sorts. Five different old Jewish women in the neighborhood have become his adoptive grandmothers and he would kill for them. A few distant blood relatives have cropped up over the years, looking for work or help. He provides what he can, and that’s usually a fair bit. He doesn’t want to welcome the young ones into the folds of criminal enterprise, so he tells his closest associates to not fucking romanticize this kind of life. But he looks after people. That’s how he inspires such loyalty. But everyone knows to pretend it’s through fear. Only the found family—the whole of the Jewish population in Camden, really—knows that Alfie Solomons is capable of benevolence.


	30. Headcanon Request: Prewar Alfie

I think that, unlike Tommy, who was a bit of an idealist and dreamer before the war, Alfie was already cynical for his age. To some extent, he knew what he was getting into when he joined up, he knew that the common soldier was just a sort of pawn for rulers to use as they flexed their power in the face of rivals. But he joined up pre-war, and voluntarily (sort of…I think it was a lesser of two evils, sort of lesser punishment for some of the trouble he’d been getting into around Camden). So maybe he thought he could make a difference, or at least take some matters into his own hands. And if nothing else, he could channel some of his aggression. He was very intense about it, and I imagine that’s why he was promoted over the years.

The war stripped him of any remaining idealism he might’ve had, for two reasons. 1) the general violence and senselessness of it. I mean, WWI is kind of the historical marker for a turn toward a cynical, psychologically scarred modernism, and a big part of that is because the average soldier didn’t know what the fuck they were actually fighting for. It was a war about nothing. There were no winners. The weapons? My god, you could kill a person without ever having to see his face, without any real understanding that he was another human. Then you’d get up close, or pass dead bodies, and the carnage was just horrific. I mean, a man isn’t born laughing about things like shoving a six-inch nail through a man’s nose. Something gets him to that point. A complete breakdown his sense of morality AND mortality, is my guess. And Alfie goes through al of that. (Most of the men in the show go through that, I mean, the War’s essentially the catalyst for all of their demons.) 2) being a captain, he wasn’t at the very top of the hierarchy, but he knew more about what was happening than the average soldier. While low level soldiers were receiving spirited speeches about making their country proud, Alfie was hearing orders come down, knowing it was a load of shit. So that was an added level of disillusionment.

I don’t think that, as a captain, he had quite nailed down his maddened, unpredictable leader persona yet. I like to think that he used his experience as a captain–both the successes and the mistakes–to inform what kind of boss he’d be with his own business. Being too vulnerable, too much of himself in the military meant that when Captain Solomons got fucked up or chewed out or seen through, Alfie was feeling all that too. As boss of the bakery, he develops a little bit more of persona–a thicker layer of insulation from all the fuckery of the world he’s part of. But he was a good captain. Didn’t ask his men to do anything he wouldn’t do. Even put himself in situations that his own superiors didn’t approve of, because he wasn’t going to let his men “have all the fun.”

He was a teetotaler as a captain, never so much as smoked. Had this weird thing about needing to feel all the awfulness. Refused to dull anything, thought it was cheating, or something. Or more like, by denying himself any vices, he felt more entitled to going batshit crazy violent on occasion, almost like he was owed _some_ kind of bad behavior (very bad logic, but his logic nonetheless). The couple of men that stuck around and joined in his bakery business thought he was fucking joking when said he was opening a distillery, ‘cause Captain Solomons was dry as a desert.


	31. Headcanon Request: Alfie's Woman has a Daughter

He’s very uncomfortable at first. He’d never let her know that–doesn’t want her feeling bad about it, because it’s not her or even the kid, it’s _him_. He’s never really handled kids or been around them much, save for his much younger sister. But that was ages ago, and he’s more than out of practice. So he reacts clumsily, albeit sincerely, when he says it’s not trouble.

He takes to it, in time. Requests to take the both of them on a date, makes himself very spiffy and gentlemanly, because even children–maybe especially children–need to know that they’re worth going to the trouble for. She’s a little thing when he meets her, newly four, but very precocious. And very protective of her mum, which he finds endearing. On that first “date” with the both of them, she pelts him with questions–particularly insistent that he start buying flowers for mum, “’cause that’s what princes do.”

He thinks to clarify that he’s _not_ a prince, but her little stare is too sharp for him to do anything but agree. She calls him “Owfie,” which he tries correcting ‘cause it sounds like one of them made-up words kids use when they get hurt. But over time, he perks up whenever he hears it.

The real turning point comes when he agrees to watch her for the day. He shows her how to bake a loaf of bread–she’s more interested in trying to blow flour into his beard. And he introduces her to Cyril–who plays the role of a couch _very_ patiently. In the late afternoon, when she starts idly twirling her hair, he suspects a nap is in order and hauls her onto the couch for a story. He tries his very best to cut back on the expletives, and she falls asleep with her hand clasped tightly around one of his bracelets.

He’s fucking sold.


	32. Newborn Babe

It’s only been a week, but already his ears are trained to those sad little whimpers. The babe’s not really a screamer, just chokes out sobs, all pitiful like. He hopes it’s just restlessness, not hunger, ‘cause you’re sleeping so peacefully, he’d hate to have to wake you. It’s still so early in all this that neither of you can bear to be parted from the darling. So all Alfie has to do is walk over to the bassinet, which is fortunate, ‘cause he’s blind as a fucking bat in the dark like this.

“Shh, shh, there sweetling. Come on then, let’s have a walk.”

He tucks the bundle close to his chest and hums a couple of times to calm the cries. Then he heads for the kitchen, which _he’s_ always found comforting. Might do the trick for the little one, too.

God, what a tiny thing. Impossibly small fingers, impossibly soft cheeks, the cleverest eyes Alfie had ever seen, save for your own. He wanted to keep it all to himself, all this happiness. But at the same time, he wanted everyone to join him in amazement. Well maybe not _everyone_. One person, most certainly.

He thinks for a minute, then starts talking, apparently to himself, as the babe grunts and grumbles softly. “We were sure it was gonna be a girl. All the old wives tricks and tells said she’d be a she. We were gonna name her after you, yeah? I was all prepared to spoil her rotten, learn how to do her hair and all, you believe that? These clumsy fingers tryna braid?

Ah, but this charmer surprised us. Weren’t expecting a son. Dinnit have plans for that one. But I couldn’t imagine it any other way. It don’t really matter at the end of the day. Boy or girl, when they’re little like this, it’s all just softness. The rest is just thinking ahead.”

The little one was wiggling less now, all but stopped crying, but Alfie wasn’t quite done talking.

“Y’know, seeing her hold him, coo at him, it does something to my heart. I get happy for him, excited in a way, ‘cause I know he can already feel all that love. I didn’t get to keep you around long enough, but I remember that feeling myself. Now I’ve got a son who gets to have that, too. Fucking wild, innit?”

He looked down at the boy who was blinking slower and slower by the second and decided to head back to the room. “Handsome like your father, eh? But mum’s eyes.” He stood in the doorway of the bedroom, watching you sleep. Then he pressed his lips to the babe’s forehead and breathed in that soft, pink baby smell. “You and me, yeah, we got a very important job. We take care of her. ‘Cause she’s good to us, and we’re very lucky.”

Maybe he should’ve put the babe back in the bassinet, but he couldn’t bring himself to let go yet. You woke up near the crack of dawn to the sight of one very burly husband snoring, and one very small baby curled atop his chest.


	33. Newly-Minted God

A bear without claws, just wide swiping paws,  
snapped-shut jaws of sharp teeth but  
a _fucking_ roar. A goddamn bellow, a real damning fellow,  
y’know? And the wisdom, my god, to know  
that right from wrong ain’t much of a fucking difference.

But the great beast steps on steady feet,  
for all his weak and weary remnants of not-quite-defeats,  
just cold shivers and beads of sweat in his sleep when  
the ghosts come knocking, and the rot starts rotting  
at the temples of his mind, the only fucking thing that works.

So when the honey’s all gone, let a shot ring out and  
silence the bastard, ‘cause he never could stop his own self from talking,  
can’t bear the fucking thought of balking like a man scared to waste away.  
Maybe the ships are docking, and what a spectacle for gawking,  
let the riff-raff find a bear flat on his back in the sand.

Bury him with his belongings, right, like a pharaoh of old.  
In all his layers, and worldly cares, and rings upon rings of gold.  
Wouldn’t that be a fine bit of justice? To tear himself  
from the white-knuckled clutches of a history determined to hold him down?  
Let them say he made his own way, spite-fueled and dented crown.

And then when the sun rises, find it all a facade–  
no death for the righteous, the newly-minted god.


	34. Resurrection (NSFW Light Bondage and Edging)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alfie Solomons X Tessa Telfair (’cause lord knows S5E6 mucked up my ending to Big God…so consider this a bonus, divergent timeline.)

He leaves her hanging for three months. Vanishes without a word. When she gets a call that a dog matching Cyril’s description has shown up at a pound in Canterbury, she knows what’s happened. Alfie’s gone.

She picks up the dog and they mourn together, curled up in whatever blankets and clothes still smell like Alfie. Days melt into weeks, men at the Bakery keep searching for him, but Tessa’s accepted the inevitable. He was living on borrowed time, anyway. Her grief was her own fault, she hadn’t prepared herself for him leaving.

Then a car shows up at her front door and Tommy Shelby tells her to get in. He’s gaunt, paler than she ever recalled, and she wonders if it’s possible that he’s mourning too. It’s hard to imagine, a man with so many deaths on his hands, feeling sorrow at anyone’s passing. But the whole world seems to be missing something in Alfie’s absence.

They arrive in Margate and Tommy leads her to the entrance of a seaside home with music pouring from its open balcony doors. He doesn’t bother knocking, just opens the door and gestures for her to enter, anticipation written across his face.

A voice from her dreams calls out from the kitchen. “S’at you, Tom? Come on in then, no use hiding behind pretense, yeah?”

Tommy glances at Tessa and her ankles nearly fold on themselves, but she walks forward anyway with her heart pounding so hard that she thinks she might collapse. She sees the back of him first, his apron tied around his waist, his shoulders shifting as he kneads dough on the counter. His hair is trimmed just a bit shorter than she remembers, but the same cowlick sticks up from the crown of his head. _Her Alfie_.

She tries to keep her voice steady. “Having a nice vacation, then?”

He jerks around and she has to lean on the doorframe to keep from falling. One side of his face looks like it’s been shredded and sewn back together, his left eye is opalescent. She winces to think of him hurt, but she’s never been happier to see a face.

He cleans his hands on his apron and rushes to her, grabs her face and the back of her head, pulls her into his embrace and breathes heavy, “Tess, my dear sweet Tess, like a fucking angel you are.” She can’t wrap her arms around him tightly enough, can’t get close enough to him, but she has questions–a thousand questions.

“Where have you been? What happened?” She pets his newly scarred cheek as softly as possible.

And then he tells her. Tells her about his deal with Tommy, about leaving one morning to go face his death like a man. Tells her about waking up with the sea licking at his blown-to-bits face and about the misdiagnosed cancer and pretending to be dead and her shock turns to rage.

She beats at his breast, curses his name. “Go have yourself killed? And then leave me to grieve? I mourned you, Alfie! Cyril’s been inconsolable. Every time I walk through the door instead of you, his heart breaks. I dreamt of you and woke up crying.”

She pounds on his shoulders, smacks at his chest until her arms are tired and she collapses into him. Rage turns to relief and choking tears and he holds her close, pets her hair, “I’m sorry Tess, I’ll make it up to you, I fucking swear I will.”

A few days later, once she’s moved into his hidden mansion and settled into the relief of having him back, she calls on that promise to make a request.

“You owe me, Alfie,” she whispers in bed. “Let your wife have her way with you?”

He chuckles, raises his arms over his head per her request, and sighs. “Right then. My sweet Tess can’t make this too bad, yeah?” She secures his wrists together with a scarf she’d found, then ties it to the headboard–enough slack for him to tug, but not enough for him to slip free–and finishes with a whisper in his ear.

“No swearing.”

She starts fully dressed, slow and sweet with loving attention to his face and neck so she can dig her hands into his beard while she kisses him. He instantly realizes he’s made a mistake because all he can focus on is trying to touch her but he’s completely unable to.

“If you behave, I’ll take something off. My choice.” He takes a deep breath, relaxing, and she rewards him by removing her sweater. “That’s right, dear. Sit back and let me take care of you.”

“Fuck, I’ve missed the sight of you.” His legs shift back and forth but she clicks her tongue at him.

“That’s your freebie. If you can’t behave that tongue of yours, I’ll have to pull my hands away.”

He presses his lips tight together and she removes her undershirt. At the sight of her breasts, he tries to reach for her, rattling the headboard.

“What did I say about behaving?”

She sits back, puts distance between them, and Alfie groans in frustration. “Fucking hell, love, have pity on an old man.”

She tuts at him and climbs completely out of his lap. “Now you’ll just have to watch.” She strips bare for him, slow as she maintains eye contact, and it takes everything in him not to swear. She doesn’t hold it against him that he pulls a bit on the tie. It has him flexing in delicious ways.

“Are you ready to behave now, love?”

Not trusting his voice, Alfie nods instead, jaw clenched tightly closed. She smirks as she climbs back into his lap, hands reaching for his beard. She resumes her soft kisses across his face and neck, nuzzling her cheek against his beard like a house cat. She can feel the tension in every inch of his body. She runs her nails gently along the tender inside of his exposed arms and he shivers from head to toe. She feels his hips start shifting beneath her and she kisses just below his ear.

“Having trouble holding still, dear?”

He breathes, rather than speaks his answer. “Missed you so bad it hurt.”

“I missed you too,” she hums. Replaces her nails with soft kisses and teasing nips, stopping to suck dark red marks into his skin. He grunts through his nose, nostrils flaring, and the sight stokes a fire inside her. “Missed these strong arms, holding me tight.”

“Too bad someone’s keeping me from doing just that, hm?”

She sits back and pouts at him. “Is that a complaint?

He chuckles again, deep and dark so that she feels the rumble in her bones. “Got that pretty mouth of yours on me, how could I complain?”

She kisses across his bare chest, drags her fingertips down his stomach, to the waistband of his trousers. When she cups his erection, he pulls hard at the tie again.

“_Ffff_–”

She pauses her touch until he gathers himself.

“Fffforgive me, love.” He can do little more but growl as she raises an eyebrow and continues her attention with a bit more pressure than before.

But it’s still not enough. She unfastens his pants so she can feel the real weight and heat of him in her hand. He’s already hard as stone as she strokes him, and in his efforts to not swear, he makes the most beautiful faces she’s ever seen. It turns her on watching him flex and bite at his lip. “Behaving so well, dear husband.” She kisses his tensed neck and he whimpers. “Does it feel good?”

A whine forms in the back of his throat unwittingly when she calls him “husband” that startles both of them. Desire tears through her and she has to take a breath to steady herself, lest the game be over before she’s ready. “Oh, husband, don’t hide those delicious sounds from me,” she coos into his ear, licking the shell of it as she lightly squeezes and strokes the hardness in her hand.

Try as he might to hold it in, “fuck” hisses out between his teeth. She lets go and leans away from him entirely.

He writhes against the bed at her absence. “Fucking hell, don’t stop!”

She slides her hand between her own legs. “You broke the rules, dear. You have to settle for watching.” She’s shocked by how wet she is, but she embraces the indulgence of it. It’s like murder to him, watching and not being able to touch. Then it finally crosses his mind that he might be able to tease her, too.

“Come on then, Tess. Know you’d rather those be my fingers.”

That makes her whimper, but she’s smart enough to know what he’s trying. And smart enough to know that she can get herself off and make him desperate in the process. She nods along with his comments, her hand still buried in her folds. _Fuck_, but she is dripping, and she raises her glistening hand for him to see. “Look how wet you’ve made me.”

The look in his eyes grows wild, and wilder still as she smears the mess across his lips with a grin on her face. He pulls at his bindings when she leans away, nearly bites his bottom lip in half.

She works herself into a frenzy, eyes closed and breathing hard. “I do wish they were your fingers, with your rings still on. Never thought I’d feel your touch again, my husband’s touch.”

Every muscle in his body tenses, aching, as he tries to tempt her. “M’right here, love. Come on then, touch me.”

His voice sends her over the edge and he groans along with her as she comes. Her fingers are sticky as she holds herself up with palms against his stomach. Now that she’s slick and swollen and better able to control herself, she straddles him again, slides his hardness between her folds and grinds against him without letting him enter.

Alfie tosses his head back and forth restlessly as Tess uses him to chase her second orgasm. “I can do this all night long, is that what you want?

He whimpers something and she gyrates her hips, movements punctuating her instructions. “Use. Your. Words.”

“Please Tess, _please_.”

It’s such a lovely, mewling sound from him that she never imagined hearing from him.

“Please what?”

“Want you, wanna feel myself inside you. Please.”

He asks so politely and she wants it too, so she obliges. Seats herself on him as slowly as she can. It’s been so long without her already and now she’s been torturing him, he can’t keep quiet. “Oh-fuck-Tess” comes out in one growled word and it takes every bit of her control to lift off of him and pull away. They both nearly sob at the loss of contact.

“Nonononononono—”

“What did I say ab–”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Please, honey, _please_, Tess, please.”

It’s like a dam that’s been broken as soft pleas fall from his sinful lips. And she wants it too, as badly as he does, so she seats herself back on him, inch by inch. It takes every ounce of willpower to keep himself still, to not misbehave. He doesn’t want her taking this away from him again. Her fingers stroke over his stomach where the muscles quiver there.

“Oh husband, I have missed this.” She circles her hips, getting used to the feel of him again. “You will _not_ come before me, Alfie. Do you hear me?

“Tess…” his teeth are clenched tight.

She stops moving to wait for his answer. “Is that a yes?”

He tosses his head back until it hits the bed frame and groans, “_yes_.”

She starts to ride him in earnest now, Alfie’s eyes never leaving hers.

The longer he keeps his gaze locked on hers, the more her resolve slips. She sees his hands clenching and unclenching above his head and all she really wants is to feel them on her, to feel him holding her. So many nights spent wishing she could feel him again, wishing she could feel the strength and comfort of her big bear.

“Can you keep that promise if I untie you?”

“Yes, I swear, please, love, please, I want to touch you so badly.”

She leans forward and can feel his damp, heated breath on her breast as she slips the knot free. His hands are on her face in a flash, pulling her mouth to his. She’s never felt such desperate kisses and thinks back to the day he returned to her life.

“Don’t ever leave me again,” she whines, feeling torn in two by him.

Between kisses, cradling her whole body against him as he thrusts into her, hard and full, he agrees. “I won’t, I swear it, I’ll never leave you Tess. You’re mine, I’m not letting go.”

She shudders hard at his words, falls over the edge with a cry. He feels like he’s falling over some edge too, the edge of a cliff, in slow motion, afraid to breathe, only able to think of one thing, utter one word. “_Tess_.”

She falls limply to the mattress, pulling him over her in one fluid motion. It’s all the permission Alfie needs to hike her legs back around his waist, slip back into her, and thrust hard and deep, with his arms braced over her, surrounding her. His orgasm comes like a punch to the gut after being denied for so long and he feels like he’ll never stop coming. He falls into her, shaking, his face buried in her neck, inhaling the smell of her, something he thought he’d never get to do again. He feels her fingers scratching at his temples and he can’t help but to nuzzle into her caress.

It gets him a little teary-eyed, admitting that he thought he’d never be able to hold her again, make her shake like that again. He ghosts a hundred kisses all over her face, can taste the tang of salt near her eyes and it makes his heart ache. Why had he ever thought she’d be happier with him gone? Or that he’d be able to live without her? They hold each other tight through the night. In the morning, they’ll have to figure out how to separate, how to peel away from each other, but for the night, they stay melted together.


	35. Little Cub: Part 1

Alfie’s never been one to go looking for a righteous cause. But when it comes knocking at his door, there’s no telling it to fuck off. So his retirement after Margate is brief. Once the fascist party starts getting a foothold, he tosses his hat into the ring again.

Now, he’d promised you, no more deals with the devil, be he Shelby or otherwise. One death was enough for your liking, thank you very much, and you’d sworn to him that if he pulled another stunt like the one on the beach, you’d never forgive him. Not in this life or the next.

But something’s rotting in the world, and he starts losing sleep, sweating through the nights again like he did when your love was new and the demons still ran rampant. So you bend, eventually, because he’s right: he can’t sit back, _you_ can’t let him sit back and hide while genocide brews and laps at the edges of sanity. Maybe there’s more grey in his beard than brown these days, but he still manages violence, direct action. And you manage the blow-back. Your home in Margate, and a few other quiet places nearby, serve as sanctuaries–safe havens for Jews that have escaped or that otherwise need hiding. You become a makeshift matriarch, keeping people fed and safe and out of abject poverty while they try to re-establish their lives. Urgency rises in you and sinks its teeth into your nerves so that every day is a new panic and you start sweating through the night as well. Things have grown dark, but the two of you decided to be a torchlight, even if it meant burning up. It gets harder when the rooms start filling with children. You’ve got a network set up–contacts across Britain and a handful in France. On rare occasions, you manage to match families back together. More often, you pair parentless children with childless parents–make any attempt to ensure no one leaves your care alone. It’s not ideal. None of it’s ideal. But it’s the best you can do with what you have.

A young mother comes through your doors, husband-less, and wrecked by childbirth. Her spirit’s in pieces, and you think that’s why she doesn’t make it. The “why” doesn’t matter all that much in the moment; what matters is that she leaves behind a little underfed bundle, too fresh, too new to the world for anything but being held close and comforted. But bless her tiny heart, the babe’s lungs are strong, like she wants the world to hear her rage. You can’t bear to put her down. You check records, run names, can’t find a living soul that’s connected to her. She wails and wails until the other children are unsettled, so you decide to bring her home for the night.

She’s still whimpering when Alfie gets home, half past midnight. He hangs his hat and coat by the door, takes one look at the sad bundle in your arms, and you worry that’s irritation you’re reading on his forehead. But it’s exhaustion, and he motions you over. “Late night visitor, hm?”

You keep your eyes on her frowning face and your voice is sadder than you mean for it to be when you answer. “Her mother died today. No father. Hasn’t stopped crying all day, the poor thing. Like she knows what’s happening in the world. And she’s crying for all of us.”

He rolls his sleeves up, scratches his beard, shakes his head. “Right, well, give her here, then. Look like you could use a break yourself, pet.”

Relieved that he’s not cross at having a weeping baby in the house, you pass her into Alfie’s arms. It’s not the first time you’ve brought a struggling visitor home, but this one’s the smallest so far. He settles into a lounging chair with her and begins rambling about his day. When the babe finally goes quiet, his rumble’s the only sound heard through the house. You stand next to them, a hand on Alfie’s arm, beside yourself with heartbreak for the child and all that she represents. All the “what if”s and “could have been”s and “how will the world make it?”

By now, you and Alfie have been together for a good long while. You never purposefully set out to have children–your lives didn’t suit it. But you didn’t go out of your way to prevent it either. Just never seemed to be in the cards. And you were fine with that. You had each other, and that was more than enough to bring you comfort. Better than most people had. But it doesn’t mean that the sight of Alfie with a babe in his arms doesn’t send a soothing warmth through you. You feel a kinship with her already, as she stares in wonder at his face. You pet the wisps of hair across her soft forehead while he rambles on, and think to yourself, _“I know, little one, I know just how you feel.”_

By the time Alfie’s talked himself hoarse, she’s been fast asleep for an hour or so, curled on his chest. You take your tea settled in the chair across from them, burning the image of Alfie with a baby into your brain. She’s drifted off with her tiny hand clasped onto his beard and you smile at the sight. But you can see a heaviness in his face. You put your tea down and go over to him, squeeze onto the lounger beside him. He turns to you with unshed tears in his eyes–an anomaly that digs right into the sorrow of you. “Whatever we do, it’s not gonna be enough, is it?” he whispers, voice weary from talking so long. “Fuck, what more can we do?”

You hold him tight, hold them both, and with your heart in your throat, you ask the question you’d been thinking all evening. "Why don’t we start with this little one?“

He knows what you mean, of course he knows, he’s been thinking it too. But he takes in a deep breath and you see fear in his face for only the second or third time in your lives. “I ain’t fit, love,” he whispers. “I’m a killer’s, what I am. With blood on my hands. And god save her, she’s just an innocent.”

You press your mouth to his temple because you’ll cry if you look at him, and mumble your next words right into his mind. “You listen to me, Alfie Solomons. If you don’t think you can love her, that’s one thing. But this little girl won’t care a bit what you’ve done. Yours is the only voice that’s calmed her.”

He huffs through his nose and you feel him look down. Watch him smooth one calloused knuckle against the back of her cheek. “All alone, ain’t she?”

“She doesn’t have to be.”

You hold your breath as he mulls it over–feels like the longest minute of your life, until “fucking hell, alright.”

Your breath comes out in a rush, the sob that was cinched tight in your chest spilling out of you. You kiss his temple again, and his cheek. He can’t turn his head without disturbing the little fist still tangled in his beard, but you kiss every part of his face that you can reach, and your tears finally fall.

“She won’t ever have to know loneliness,” he whispers, more to her than to you.

The three of you tuck into bed that night and she sleeps on his chest. He’s frozen, hand against the whole of her back, and you stare in awe. Even his snores seem softer in her presence. But you struggle to sleep. Your heart pounds nervously because this was never part of the plan. But it feels right; it looks right, lying next to you in bed.

In the morning, you leave the pair of them at home while you go on a supply run. When you return, they’re both sat in his chair facing the sea. He’s got his binoculars held up to her face, and you hear him explain: “Right, that there’s called a gull. Mean bastards, them.”

You set the groceries in the kitchen, lean against the counter where you can still see them, and listen carefully.

“Ay, don’t fret though, little cub. I _will_ protect you from ‘em.”


	36. Little Cub: Part 2

Years into the war, splinter fascist and anti-Semitic groups based in Britain are still after Alfie. He’s a prize in their eyes: a pillar of the community that they could make an example of. They catch him, occasionally. Drag him to wherever they gather their hatred and bigotry. But his network of connections is vast and at-the-ready to retrieve him, so he’s never held for long.

With threats to Alfie come threats to you and the safe houses you run. You’re used to the bluster of them, but when the other caretakers you work with start noticing suspicious figures on the outskirts of the grounds, you get word to Alfie. Your own little cub is here, after all, and a whole host of children. Now is not the time to be anything other than cautious.

In an hour’s time, he’s leading a brigade of black motorcars up the driveway, full of every able-bodied man he could find on short notice. You watch the children inside the house press up against the front windows to see the spectacle. The house is usually full of women–they don’t often see such a concentration of men, much less a whole gang of them in black coats with guns at the ready. So their small hands and noses are eagerly smudging the glass in hopes of seeing the legendary Alfie Solomons. Then you hear him, calling out loudly into the dreary afternoon.

“Right then, listen up. Let it be known to all that this house, as of this moment, is under my personal fucking protection. Should anyone be so foolish as to breathe even one fucking rancid breath on these grounds without my explicit permission, I _will_ shoot you. With glee.”

You roll your eyes a touch–it’s impossible not to, listening to his theatrics. But your gaze is trained on the children ahead of you, mumbling amongst themselves.

_“I heard he’s like a werewolf, ‘cept he turns into a bear.”_

_“I hear he can talk to dogs, ‘cos he was raised by them.”  
_

_“I heard he wears that big coat ‘cos the rest of him’s scarred up like his face.”_

Then you hear your little cub pipe up. “He’s not a _bear_, he’s just a normal papa.”

Your heart warms at her tiny defense.

_“But I seen his eye once, it’s all white like a blind man.”_

“Well mum says that’s his pearl eye, and _I_ think it’s special.”

As if summoned by the mention of his eye, Alfie walks through the door as it swings open. “Right then, where’s my cub?”

You watch her pull away from the crowd of stunned children and run to him, arms wide. He scoops her up triumphantly and settles her on his hip. “Hello, little one. Been causing trouble ‘round here?”

“The other kids think you’re a bear.”

He frowns, but you can see him suppressing a smile. “Well, you call me papa bear. Am I not a bear?”

She wiggles as she shakes her head.

“Should I give the other kids a scare. Growl at ‘em a bit, hm?”

Mischievous as she is, she’s a soft heart, too. Decides not to let him frighten the other children. Instead, you see her pet the side of his face–the scarred side, that he once fretted over, worried it would scare you off. But his little cub doesn’t care a bit and deposits a small kiss to it as he carries her toward you.


	37. Little Darling

You’re a darling. That’s what he calls you at first, rather than ‘pet’ or ‘kitten,’ which he saves for later. He calls you ‘darling,’ right, ‘cause you’re good and soft and—if he’s being honest with himself—too fucking light for mucking about with him.

He tells you as much, and tells you often. Every time you show up at his office with an arsenal of kisses and cooing sweet nothings. “I’m a bad man, little darling,” he groans, while you’ve got your little darling mouth latched to his ear lobe. “Best not dirty your hands.”

‘Course, you roll your eyes like he’s being dramatic, but it’s the fucking truth of it. Even if you ain’t convinced. He’s a bad man, blood on his hands that he knowingly, purposefully put there, right? And your hands are soft as silk, it’d be a shame to soil ‘em.

“If you were a bad man, Alfred Solomons, you wouldn’t be warning me off.”

That’s the one what gets him. Can’t argue with that bit of logic, can he? But it still don’t make him a good man, he grumbles, wagging a finger at you.

What matter if he donates to a charity for the blind? Or gives the bakery’s day old bread to shelters around Camden—under his mother’s maiden name, lest he sully his reputation. These things don’t make him a good man, even though you swear to him that they certainly don’t make him any worse.

“I’ve kissed bad men, Alfie. You don’t kiss like they did.”

He feels his own eyebrows raise at that, “little darling’s been kissin bad men?”

“Not since I started kissing you.”

He likes that little clarification, holds you a bit tighter, even though he oughtn’t—y’know, ‘cause he’s a _bad man_.

“Do I need to add to my tally, then? Punish them bad men for kissin you so poorly?”

You’re all but in his lap, scrunching up your little darling nose. “Not worth a good man’s energy.”


	38. Headcanon Request: Morning Sex (NSFW)

Alfie _prefers_ to fuck by firelight, if he’s allowed his way, but that’s an explanation for another day. Suffice it to say, if there’s to be a _morning_ romp, you have to initiate it. Not that he ever complains; especially when it means waking up to you tonguing his neck.

But having you laze by his side ain’t enough; he always wants you closer. Doesn’t like admitting that he has desires, that he wants anything, yeah? ‘Cause to want something, to want _for_ something, means he’s lacking in some way. And saying it out loud means being vulnerable, and that condition can fuck right off. But in the sacred privacy of your bedroom, he lets himself want you, and more of you, and then all of you. But he’s never wanting long. Only takes his hand reaching out in silent request for you to tuck into him.

Or on mornings like this, to straddle him. Poor Mr. Solomons with the troublesome back needs to be taken care of—a truth he scoffs at, even though you kiss his pouting lips. ‘Cause it’s not like he can’t fuck you right proper when you get him riled up. (And what gets him riled up changes from day-to-day.) But first thing in the morning, with cold stiffness settled into his bones, _you’d_ much prefer to do the warming. To settle yourself on his fuzzy thighs and kiss his pink mouth until you feel a bit drunk and his cock stirs against your cunt.

“Eager there, strudel?”

You laugh through your nose, pet at his beard, because there’s an easy humor about him even when he’s just waking up. But the humor fades when he starts with his hands, dexterous even for their size and callouses. His fingers skate over your ribs, up your back, curl into your hair at the base of your neck so he can drag you down for a searing kiss. You grind against him until you hear him take a sharp breath in.

“Right then, you just gonna tease me all morning, or you gonna let me the fuck in, hm?” His eyes don’t match the snark, never do in moments like this. They’re all soft and doting, give him away as the romantic he fucking swore he’d never be. You know what a gift it is. So you kiss his cheek, press forehead to forehead, and push onto his cock with a sigh.

He acts like it doesn’t get to him, just smirks and rubs little circles into the sides of your waist. But when you sit up straight and roll your hips forward, you catch him blinking slow.

“Sleepy, dear bear?”

A grunt rumbles halfway up his throat before he swallows it back down and shakes his head. “Wide fuckin awake.”

“Eyes look awfully heavy.”

He watches you ride him for a moment, then runs his hands from your shoulders down to your hands, palms flat against his chest. “Forgive a man feeling overwhelmed, yeah? You look like an angel,” he heaves breath. “…feel like _fucking_ sin.”

“Shit, Alfie—“

You can’t finish your thought before he’s surging up to cradle you in his lap. “_I know, love_.”

With one hand gripping your thigh, the other raises to hold the back of your neck, ringed fingers tangling in your hair. Nose-to-nose, he thrusts hard and sharp up into you. And it’s such a sweet fucking feeling that you both smile, breathe heavy against each others’ mouths until everything’s warm and humid between you.

But _oh_, then he tucks his mouth beneath your ear, nibbles the tender flesh there, and begs: “lemme hear them lovely sounds you make when you come for me, hm?”

It’s his voice that breaks you, breathy and rough from sleep. He follows close behind, always weak when you clench hard around him. He pulls you down in his arms when he collapses back into the pillows. Arranges you to lay across every inch of him, ‘cause it’s not a want anymore: his skin _needs_ to touch yours. Then slips two fingers back into you just to feel_, _indulgent bastard that he is. “A blessing, this is.”


	39. Ironing Shirts

“Y’know, we’ve got a maid what does that for us.”

He sneaks up behind you, silent, since he’s managed socks but not shoes yet. He gets dressed in the mornings rather like a distractable toddler, so once he’s got trousers and socks on, he figures it’s time for breakfast. You don’t mind a whit this morning, since it means his arms are bare as they settle around your waist.

“Yes, well, I like feeling the fabric all warm.”

He grunts a kiss between your shoulder blades. “Right pretty picture, yeah? You in your knickers, ironing my shirt.”

You finish setting the crisp lines of the garment’s curling collar and turn your cheek to him for a kiss. It’s a chaste little thing, more beard than lips, and warms you to your toes.

“Arms out,” you direct. You know the delicious, settling sensation of still-warm clothes sliding over bare skin, and you can see it on his face as he lets you dress him.

“I can clothe myself, yeah?”

You smile as you slip each opalescent button through its hole. “I’m aware…but I always see you fiddling with these buttons. And if I fasten them for you, and make it a big to-do, when you’re fiddling with them later…”

He shifts back and forth on socked feet and chuckles. “Maybe I’ll think of you, then?”

You smile and shrug like it’s not a big deal, even though you avoid his stare. But he won’t have it; takes your chin with thumb and hooked forefinger beneath it. “Don’t need a reason to think about you, pet. Always, already.”

You reach around to tuck his shirttails into his waistband: half practicality, half excuse for an embrace.


	40. By Firelight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explanation, in Alfie's voice, of why he prefers to fuck by firelight...

“It’s twofold, see…well, twofold after you set the fucking aside. The two things, in no particular order, are the color, right…and the smell. The reflection of firelight on skin is fuckin’ primitive, innit? How long you think humanity’s been fuckin’ by firelight? From the very start. Not every romp’s gotta be some lyrical lovemaking or what-have-you. But you fuck by firelight and that’s tapping into the eternal. But that don’t mean it’s all crude, no, no, it’s actually quite nuanced. When you first strip off clothes, it’s just a nice warm glow, right? Just soft as could be, hittin all them curves and crevices like a goddamn Caravaggio, mate, like a work of fucking art, that is. All dark shadows and gold. Proper gold, too, none of that brassy shite. Warm like it’ll melt in your hand. And that’s just exactly what the skin does, yeah, just softens around my fingers when I clutch onto her waist. But that soft gold turns _molten_ when the sweat starts beading–and fucking bead it will with them flames licking atcha. And the color, it gets a sheen to it, yeah? Hands start sliding, try to hold tighter, and it all gets slick and desperate. Now, that’s always when the aroma hits me. Something about the smoke with the sweat and leftover perfume of the day, after it’s gone all musky and rounded out. Fall asleep with that smell in your nose, her ass in your hand. Yeah, that oughta do it.”


End file.
